


i wasn't expecting that

by yee_haw23



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, I'm so sorry, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Like really slow, Like so much angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24923596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yee_haw23/pseuds/yee_haw23
Summary: “You deserve to be happy, you know?” In an instant, everything seemed to focus-- the fuzzy sense of reality Crowley had begun to view as normal sharpening as though he was seeing clearly for the first time. And in an instant Crowley knew, if he didn’t live and die beside this man, he’d have lived no life at all.***Crowley is not quite middle-aged but quite unsatisfied with his seemingly perfect life. Nothing seems to fit right until he meets Aziraphale. Love is quite the messy road for these two. Will they be able to make it work in the end?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Michael (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 60





	1. ghosting

**Author's Note:**

> hey babes! it's been a while. i was working on a lot of personal baggage and this is the result! a very long fic about messy relationships and how complex humans fit themselves together. hope you're ready to strap in for a rollercoaster of emotion. i'll update the tags as we go on (i'm sure there will be much more). xoxo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a light tw for this chapter, there's some arguments and name-calling at the beginning. the entire car ride is pretty tense so if that kind of angry energy makes you uncomfy, you can skip! the important bit to know is that michael doesn't like crowley and resents him a bit.

“ _ You don’t need treats, you don’t need tricks, and you don’t need me” _

* * *

“I am valued, I am successful, I am-- shit,” Crowley starred in the mirror running his hand through his hair. He knew it would frizz his long curls but he could hardly help it, “Anathema makes it sound so bloody easy.” He looked to his reflection once more, “They’re just silly affirmations,” a deep breath, “I am valued, I am successful, I…” he stared into his own eyes, blinking and starting again, “I am valued, I am successf--” he was interrupted by quick raps on the door.

Michael’s crisp voice dulled through the door, “You going to spend all night in there? You need to hurry, else we’re going to be late.”

“Yeah, just a minute,” Crowley heaved a sigh, staring into his reflection. His flaming red hair was, as he predicted, much frizzier than before, and his eyes looked tired, far more so than needed at thirty-five. He looked at his clothes, a crisp white button-up tucked into black trousers (skinnier than Michael would have liked) fitted with an unremarkable belt, and shifted uncomfortably-- Michael never much liked Crowley’s style and had, of course, made a comment at Crowley’s original choice of shirt, a short-sleeved, dark red button-up and some rather flash accessories, balking that this was a dinner party not one of Crowley’s nightclubs.

He peered into his own eyes again, “I am valued,” he sounded like he believed that one, “I am successful,” he knew he believed that one, “I am--” he took a steadying breath but looked to the sink rather than his reflection, “I am fulfilled,” his tone dripped with sarcasm.

The problem with Anthony J. Crowley, aged thirty-five, was that he had everything he’d ever wanted in life. He had an incredible job in publishing, a rather nice flat in the city, and a steady relationship with someone who, more or less, tolerated him. It was everything he had ever asked for-- so why then, did he feel as though he had nothing at all?

The quick raps at the door got more pressing, “Anthony, get out there. We need to leave.”

Crowley slapped himself a couple of times and stepped out of the washroom, a charming smile plastered on his face, “Ready, then?”

Michael gave him a once over, her icy gaze making her seem more like an appraiser than his girlfriend, “Good lord, those trousers are far too tight. And your hair looks like shit. No matter, let’s go.” She handed him a coat and turned swiftly, heels clicking out of the flat.

Crowley stared at the ceiling a moment and pulled on his coat before following in her footsteps, swiping the keys from the table before leaving. Michael was ten steps ahead of him as she waited for the lift, slipping in before him and not bothering to hold the doors open, forcing Crowley’s fingers to be nearly crushed.

Side by side, they looked like the perfect pair: red hair nearly matching, hard lines that were delicate yet powerful, an aura that screamed they were not to be trifled with. But when you looked closer, there was a strain there-- a crack in the mosaic. Crowley could feel that strain weighing heavy on him every day, but he never gave it a name, never saw it for what it was. It was better to live in ignorant bliss than face his harsh reality.

The sharp ding of the lift brought Crowley back to the present, Michael’s clipped steps echoing as she strode in front of him. He followed Michael into the garage below, not bothering to keep up. The view of her hair twisted up in that impossibly tight style allowed Crowley to ponder. Maybe if she let that hair down she’d loosen up for once, like she had when they met at uni.

A deep sigh spilled from his lips prompting a quick sidelong glance from Michael, “I can feel you reminiscing from here,” her tone was as clipped as her steps.

“Right, sorry, let me just stop thinking,” they got to the doors of their respective seats.

“Stop being so dramatic, that’s not what I meant,” they both slid in as Crowley unlocked the doors. Crowley’s car was like his child. The Bentley had been an acquisition he was all too happy to make and he’d spent countless hours rebuilding the engine so it would run.

Crowley couldn’t help the sardonic bark of laughter that followed her statement, “Sure like you don’t hate when I remember when things were good.” He pulled out of the car park and began moving through the city streets, much faster than he normally would with Michael in the car.

She rolled her eyes, gripping the door, “Well things would still be good if you ever listened to that therapist of yours.”

Crowley took a turn too fast, slamming Michael, who was unprepared, into the door, “I do listen to my therapist! She’s the one who’s making me think about the things that were good.”

“Well if I’d known she’d just make you dwell in the past, I’d never have recommended you go.”

“What? Afraid she’s gonna make me up and leave? Give me a little sense of worth and I’ll go break free from all of this?”

Michael scoffed, “Don’t be ridiculous, of course not!” Crowley slammed a little too hard on the brakes, forcing Michael to brace herself with her hand on the dashboard, “I fucking hate your driving.”

“Well, it’s clearly not the only thing you hate about me.”

A silence fell between them, nothing but the engine and their breathing permeating the space between them. Crowley sped through the remaining center of the city and finally made it to the quieter edges of London. Bearing the quiet for unbelievably long, Crowley switched on his music, the raucous of Queen filling the car.

“Not this garbage again,” anger still seeped into Michael’s tone, the quiet drive doing nothing to quell her irritation.

Crowley gripped the wheel tighter, “We just gonna spend all night talking about the things you can’t stand about me?”

“Can I not make a comment about music I don’t like?”

“No, no, by all means, let’s berate everything you don’t like about me--”

“You’re so damn dramatic, Anthony!”

“It started with the shirt--”

“Well, it was simply not fit for a dinner party--”

“Then you rushed me out of the door after saying I looked a mess--”

“Your hair  _ is _ a mess--”

“Then it’s my sigh, my driving, my music, fuck’s sake it seems like my whole personality is a problem for you, Micha.”

“Well maybe you should get your shit together then!” she raised her voice at him. “You’re thirty-five and look at us! No marriage, no children, nothing but arguments every night, Anthony!”

“Oh not this again, god’s sake--”

“So you can be upset about my opinions but I can’t be upset about yours?”

“Forgive me for not wanting to talk about how desperately you want an engagement ring when we are clearly not ready.”

“ _ You _ , Anthony.  _ You’re _ not ready. I’ve been ready for the past three years.”

Crowley pulled into a spot not far from their destination, cutting off the car, “Well, maybe if you weren’t such a cunt, I’d be ready, hm?” he glared at her as her jaw tightened, a breath of a laugh leaving her nose.

“Right. Because I want to help you, I’m a cunt. That’s bollocks, Anthony.”

Another harsh bark from Crowley, “You want to help? Try liking me to start.”

The pair sat in silence, parked, late, and tamping out the flames of their remaining anger. Crowley leaned his head against the wheel, uncomfortably arched but hidden from Michael’s harsh glare.

“Are you finished acting like a child? I’d like to go see my friends if you would be so kind.”

“‘Cause your mates are so fun to be around,” Crowley scoffed, “Let’s get on with it, then.”

The pair walked separately until they reached the front step of the house. After knocking, Michael looped her arm through Crowley’s, ever concerned with appearances, and, if Crowley’s knowledge of her habits was any good, a warm smile was plastered on her face as the door swung open.

“Michael, Crowley,” Gabriel clapped a hard hand on Crowley’s shoulder, “Great to see you both, come in.” The American’s loud voice and affinity to constant touch always grated Crowley’s nerves, tonight, however, he welcomed the distraction. “Everyone is mostly in the backyard. Or what do you guys call it? The garden?” He laughed heartily, “Strange. It’s barely a garden at all.”

Crowley untangled his arm from Michael, receiving a disapproving look, “Could you point me in the direction of the loo, Gabriel? New house and all, I’m a bit turned around.”

“It’s this door to the right,” he pointed just ahead of them, “Bathroom’s just been remodeled.”

Crowley smiled one of his supremely fake smiles at him, “I’ll meet you both back there.”

He locked himself in and stared at the mirror once again-- seemed mirrors and sinks were becoming his new best friends. Something in his reflection felt off, as though a part of him was blurred, but the reflection shone back normal and clear. This haze had been following him for quite some time now (one year, seven months, and nine days give or take) and he had been struggling to make things feel as if they were in focus since then. It was as though he’d finished a puzzle but lost a piece right in the center.

“Where have I gone wrong?” he begged his reflection for answers.

As he took in his neatly buttoned-up reflection, he felt uncomfortably restricted-- shirt buttoned to the very center of the base of his throat, sleeves carefully buttoned at the wrist, all tucked into trousers. In this small room with his tight clothes, he felt the need to run, to rip everything apart, and flee. He took a steadying breath and calmly unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, taking the time to roll them up gently. He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, rolling his shoulders to relax the starched fabric.

Properly ruffled, he looked to the mirror once more, the face staring back at him feeling more focused than before. He ran his fingers through the curls again, deciding to pull some strands back. Looking at his new appearance, he grinned-- a devilish thing-- knowing full well that Michael would be quite irritated with his choices. But for him, he felt more like himself than he had in ages.

Stepping out, Crowley didn’t quite feel ready to mingle with other guests quite yet and began wandering the home.

Just ahead, Crowley could see the kitchen and turned away from it, going back towards the front. Beside the front door was a set of stairs and an archway, he popped his head into the archway and scanned the sitting room, spotting a head of blonde curls turning to meet his gaze.

The moment their eyes met Crowley felt a shock tumble down his supine. It was as though every nerve in his body was alight for the first time in years. The rush of it knocked the air from his lungs and made him feel every inch of his skin all at once.

The man looked about Crowley’s age, dressed as if he could be their grandparents’ age, definitely a bit stuffy, but rather shocked at someone’s presence, “Oh dear, did Gabriel send you to come find me?”

Crowley was taken aback, “No, was just looking around. Trying to avoid people, really.”

“Well you can join me, then,” his face brightened a bit at that. Crowley’s heart clenched, “I was just trying to do the same, honestly.” He faltered a moment, “But I suppose that would be counterintuitive. Invite two people trying to avoid people into one room.”

Something about the worry in his brow drew Crowley closer, pulling himself to lean against the archway, the devilish smirk he rarely wore these days making a home on his lips, “I dunno. You don’t seem like Gabriel’s other friends.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You don’t seem like a wanker,” that earned him an earnest laugh as he walked towards the couch the stranger was on.

The man covered his mouth quickly, light playing in his eyes but shame washing his features, “I shouldn’t laugh, that’s rather rude.”

Crowley took a seat next to him, lazing about wide and comfortable, “Nah,” he shot him a smile, “I think you’re right to laugh.” Crowley was hardly ever this social with strangers, much preferring company he knew than small talk with random people. However, something about this man drew Crowley in. There was a playful sheen in his eyes that invited Crowley to interact. His whole aura welcoming, pulling Crowley in like the moon pulls the tide.

“And what makes you so sure I’m not like Gabriel’s other guests?” a teasing lilt to his voice.

“I know these folks down to a science,” he pointed his nose in the air, feigning superiority, “been ‘round them for years now.”

He hummed, “Is that right? So you’re around these functions often?”

“More than I’d like, I’ll admit,” he looked over to the stranger, trying to see if he’d met him in passing at these soirees. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you ‘round.”

He shifted a little, “Yes, well, I tend to avoid these social functions.” He glanced shyly away, “I’m not one to go out often, for that matter. But Gabriel felt it good for my health to get out of the house,” his brow drew together in deep thought, “I doubt the legitimacy of that claim, however. I have quite the distaste for socializing with strangers--” the more he spoke the more he gestured with his hands, “it gives me some anxiety, you see. My boyfr-- ex-boyfriend, rather,” Crowley perked up at that, “used to make me do it all the time.”

The ex piqued Crowley’s interest, though he knew a single man shouldn’t be of any interest when he was in a relationship. No matter how in shambles said relationship was in.

“He claimed it was the best way for me to make new friends but I already like the friends I have,” he almost had a pout at that. “They’re exciting and fun and, besides, what do strangers have that they don’t?” The more he babbled on, the more Crowley felt a pull to him, “Sure, my friends only include an old tarot reader who does sex work on the side and a frightfully nervous young college student I met at the library and helped with a few papers but, they’re good people. 

“Besides, I can hardly stand the small talk of strangers and whatnot. What do you even say to a complete stranger?” He paused for only a brief moment then began to wring his hands nervously, “Instead I do this babbling thing that I’m doing now.”

Crowley smiled, warm and soft, almost endearing in nature, “I could listen to that ‘babble’ for hours.” He received a coy, disbelieving look from the man, “Honest! Maybe even days, hell, centuries.”

That earned him a more doubtful look.

“Serious. Your friends sound exciting, to say the least, and your ex seems like an arse for trying to force you into anything,” the stranger seemed to contemplate that, “Men, am I right? Worst of ‘em all,” he grinned mischievously, trying to add some levity to the room.

He seemed successful in his goal as he earned himself a slight chuckle and roll of the other man’s eyes, “Yes, and the charming ones are most dangerous,” he shot a look at Crowley who feigned innocence.

“Lucky for me, I’ve never been charming a day in my life,” the stranger snorted.

“Yes. Positively terrible you are.”

“Wretched, honestly. Complete arse to any and all.”

The nervousness he’d had before seemed to slip away, “Quite possibly one of the worst conversations I have had in recent times.”

Crowley could feel his shit-eating grin spread across his face, “I am quite the devil if I say so myself. Easy for me to make an angel like you miserable.” Crowley couldn’t tell where this new suave side was coming from, but he had a tiny thought that it might just be the energy between the two men. It had been a long time since Crowley had felt a genuine spark of connection with someone and the connection with the man next time seemed far more electric than a small spark.

The man’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, “Angel?” Disbelief mixed with something else crossed his face. The look stirred Crowley’s insides.

A nervous laugh, “Look the part,” he gestured to the angel, near white curls fluffed at the crown of his head, covered head to toe in creams and pastel clues, buttoned up to the gills with the softest rounded features, “damn near cherubic.”

“Clearly, you don’t know me,” something dark and hungry passed over his gaze, electrifying blue eyes pinning Crowley still, but the moment was quick, the angel’s face breaking into concern, leaving Crowley breathless. “I’ve been so rude, I don’t even believe I’ve introduced myself. I’m Aziraphale,” he smiled warmly, a tender thing that Crowley immediately craved more of.

He put on his most charming front before he’d even realized, “Lovely name, Aziraphale. Most people call me Crowley. Anthony Crowley.” He preened at the ability to introduce himself as though he were James Bond.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, “No comment about how wildly archaic my name is?”

“Archaic or not, suits you,” he flashed a smile, “‘Sides, I’m not that kinda guy.”

He covertly eyed Crowley up and down as though trying to gauge what type of person Crowley was, “I see. And what kind are you?”

“Now that depends entirely on circumstances,” Crowley relaxed further, widening his legs and leaning back as though he were some kind of tantalizing dish to be served, “very multifaceted, me.” Aziraphale, openly eying Crowley now, looked wholly unimpressed, but Crowley could see the curiosity lurking under the surface.

He quirked an eyebrow at Crowley, “We have some pretty clear circumstances here, do we not? As a guest at my dear brother’s dinner party.”

Aziraphale seemed delighted at the shock registering on Crowley’s face, “ _ You're _ Gabriel’s brother? How’s that work?” The loud American personality paired with Aziraphale’s much more reserved British presence seemed too stark a contrast to him.

“Adoption, more or less. But you’ve failed to answer my question,” he fixed Crowley with a glare similar to that of his old school teachers, “What kind of man are you around here?”

Crowley let out a deep sigh, the tenseness from the car seeping into his muscles once again, “I play the role of the loving boyfriend at these parties mostly. Keep my mouth shut and agree with what Michael has to say. Docile. Quite unlike me, really.”

Aziraphale’s face became unreadable, “Ah, Michael.” A silence built between them, causing Crowley to shift uncomfortably.

“So why do you do it?” The question startled Crowley, his brows pinched together as he fixed Aziraphale with a questioning glance. “Clearly,” he gestured to Crowley’s tense shoulders, “it makes you rather uncomfortable. So why do it?”

His mouth flopped like a fish momentarily, searching for an answer he didn’t quite know. His mouth found itself snapped shut when he felt Aziraphale’s hand on his knee-- electric energy shooting at the point of contact like he was a teenager being touched for the first time.

“It’s all right. No need to be anxious.”

Crowley started hard at the hand on his knee, until Aziraphale removed his hand for fear of making Crowley uncomfortable, “I dunno. S’pose it just sort of makes sense.”

Aziraphale nearly gawked, “To whom, exactly? Certainly not you, if it’s not in your nature.”

He shrugged again, “Michael and I have always felt pressure to be together. We were pressured to start dating in the first place,” he ran a nervous hand through his hair, avoiding eye contact, “We just sort of fit.”

There was a brief silence.

“But do you really?” Crowley’s eyes snapped to meet his. Nobody had ever asked him that. “If I remember correctly, Michael is rather,” he drifted off, looking for the right words, “exact in her tastes and preferences. And rather cold, not to offend,” Crowley shook it off. “You seem none of those things, dear.”

Crowley almost gawked at him, “And how do you know I’m not?”

“The same way you knew I wasn’t like Gabriel’s friends,” they stared at each other until Crowley felt too seen, breaking his gaze for fear of shattering under the heaviness of Aziraphale’s look.

“Right, so we’re different. Extremely so. What of it?”

The was some hesitation, “Well are you happy?”

Crowley’s back went ramrod straight, the same question he’d been asking himself for months echoing in his ears from this stranger. Gently, not of his own accord, he admitted the answer he’d always given in reply, “What does that matter?”

“Look at me,” there was gentle sternness in Aziraphale’s voice. When he met Aziraphale’s eyes, something clicked, “You deserve to be happy, you know?” In an instant, everything seemed to focus-- the fuzzy sense of reality Crowley had begun to view as normal sharpening as though he was seeing clearly for the first time. And in an instant Crowley knew, if he didn’t live and die beside this man, he’d have lived no life at all.

They stared at one another, neither breaking eye contact when a sharp voice shattered the focus.

“Anthony! There you are,” Crowley felt his shoulders sag as Aziraphale turned to look at Michael, “I see you’ve found a friend,” her face was the picture of hospitality but her words cut like knives.

Aziraphale’s smile remained pristine in the face of her irritation, “Michael, lovely to see you again. Crowley was just telling me about you,” his voice held the same friendliness as it had when Crowley had first stumbled upon him but seemed weaponized, as if Aziraphale knew the gentleness would anger Michael, “all good things, of course.”

The energy between the two was taut as a wire, Crowley balancing delicately between them- a stranger whom he’d just met and had an inextricable connection with and the other his long-time partner. “Well best we all go off to the garden then. Don’t want to keep them waiting,” Crowley hurried up and off the couch, glancing back at Aziraphale with a warm smile so rare for him.

When they arrived at the back, only three chairs remained empty, all next to each other. Not that there were many people there to begin with.

Crowley took the middle seat, not bothering to pull the chair out for Michael who was rather disgruntled by his rudeness. The main course sat before them, a strange silence settling over the table as the trio took their seats.

“Right then,” Gabriel’s voice boomed, “dig in!”

As plates were passed around, Crowley easily fell into his normal role of agreeable boyfriend, all the while feeling Aziraphale’s gaze boring into his side, refusing to look back in return-- afraid of what he might see in his eyes.

Crowley’s hollow acts of romance towards Michael felt especially performative as Aziraphale’s words rang through his head over and over. Was it really possible that he deserved happiness? If the angel had said it, it must be so. He couldn’t imagine him lying, not when every cell in his body screamed that the pair were meant for each other.

He hadn’t felt a truly romantic feeling within him for quite some time, his relationship with Michael wearing him down more than he’d expected. He suddenly found himself overwhelmed with thoughts of true love and sacrifice. All centered around Aziraphale.

“...Crowley?” He finally turned to look at Aziraphale in the eyes, irrational fear that his thoughts had been heard racing to the forefront of his mind, “Michael asked you a question.”

Dazed he turned to her, “You don’t believe in soul mates do you, Anthony? Gabriel insists they’re real but we know better,” her eyebrow raised, asking for agreement, not an opinion, “right?”

He turned to look at Aziraphale, looking at him with the same intensity as he’d shown Crowley earlier, “I think I do.”

Crowley didn’t hear Gabriel’s triumphant rambling, just as he didn’t notice Michael’s disbelieving glare. He saw only Aziraphale’s soft, mischievous smile as he turned his head to sip his wine.

The rest of the night blurred for him, coy glances shared between him and Aziraphale all while playing the doting boyfriend. As the night wound down and the guests moved inside, Crowley looked around for Aziraphale, having lost sight of him during the shift.

“Looking for B?” Gabriel’s voice commanded Crowley’s attention.

“Ngk, yeah, been a while since we’ve really seen one another. Other than work.”

“They’re staying at the apartment downtown. Something about needing quiet to write,” he plastered on a fake smile.

Crowley gave him a sheepish grin, “Probably partly my fault. Their agent has been down my throat about getting edits done. And I can’t edit unless I have work to edit.”

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder once again, “I’m just glad someone can get them to work. Heaven knows I can’t,” his laugh boomed around them.

Crowley felt a gentle hand on his other shoulder and looked up, expecting to see Aziraphale, “Think it’s time we head home, Anthony,” Michael’s features were sharp, commanding.

“‘Course,” he scanned the room once more, looking helplessly for Aziraphale, “Tell B I said hello,” though he knew he would text them sooner than Gabriel would see them.

The ride home was silent, Crowley drove carefully and slowly, completely out of focus from reality.

He couldn’t remember parking the Bentley, changing into pajamas, brushing his teeth. Nothing seemed to fit right anymore, this version of his life seeming completely incorrect as he lived through it.

Crowley sat on his side of the bed, grounding himself back into reality. He could feel the sheets against a sliver of his thigh, his hands running through a hundred tiny strands of hair, the air coming in through his nose, the water from the sink as Michael brushed her teeth.

He took a deep breath as the water shut off, “I think we’re done.”

The silence in the room was almost deafening. Michael hadn’t moved a single bit and Crowley stared at the side of her face trying to gauge some kind of reaction. The air felt almost electric around Crowley but in a way that alluded to some kind of doom.

Michael broke the silence after what couldn’t have been more than two minutes but felt like years, “What do you mean ‘done’?” Her voice was level but sharp enough to cut glass.

“You know what I mean, Michael. Neither of us is happy anymore.”

She turned her fiery gaze to him, “So what, I’ve wasted six years in this miserable heap with you?”

Crowley shut his eyes, the conversation draining him already, “You could have left at any time, Micha. I never forced you to stay.”

“The hell am I supposed to do now, Anthony?” the rage finally made it to her voice, “I’m thirty-fucking-three and I have no home now, considering you own this place. You expect me to just start my life over? Who’s going to want a thirty-three-year-old crone?”

“You’ll get by just fine,” he heaved a deep sigh, “And for the flat, you can stay here ‘til you find someplace. I’ll stay with B at their flat until you do. Sure they won’t mind.”

Michael’s sharp laugh nearly made Crowley jump, “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to see me gone. They never did like me.” The anger had all but faded from her voice, “I suppose you’re right, though. We haven’t been happy in a very long time,” she paused for a moment, dropping her voice when she spoke again, “I’m not sure I ever was.”

Crowley took a moment to reflect on that— they truly had never seemed to fit. Michael was so put together, uptight, and serious, though not in the ways Aziraphale had been, he noted. Michael had always had a vision and when that vision didn’t go her way or you didn’t fit, she found a way to change you or she blew a fuse. She had an edge and there was no gentleness to be found within her. Meanwhile, Crowley, though seemingly crass and edgy, was a melting ball of gentleness (not that he would admit that out loud). There was a fundamental disconnect between the two.

“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight, then?” Michael nodded, “I’ll grab some things in the morning before work. Take as much time as you need.”

He lifted himself up, grabbed the throw arranged artfully on their bed, and padded out of the room. As he settled on the couch and drifted out of consciousness, Aziraphale’s voice rang through his head again.

“You deserve to be happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plan is to have song titles/quotes for each chapter, we'll see how it goes. this week is from "Ghosting" by Mother Mother. all about feeling like you're taking up space your not meant to/invisible to the people you care about! a strong start. i can't wait til we get to the sickly sweet fluff bullshit i have on the storyboard.
> 
> it felt good to put this much into writing. it was also low-key heavily influenced by recent life events. not my first break-up but for fuck's sake can it be the last??? i'm tired.
> 
> anyway! since i'm trying to explore the messiness of people and our relationships, if there's anything you really want to see me explore, let me know! the story is flexible right now and i would love y'all's input. kudos, as always, are appreciated, and comments make me cream my jeans basically.


	2. all the boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a day late, sorry bout that! i'm right in the middle of moving and was far too tired to proof. forgive me for my sins
> 
> this week's chapter title/lyric is from "All the Boys" by PWR BTTM. enjoy my loves!

_ “All the boys say they don’t love me but I know they’re lying” _

* * *

Aziraphale stared blankly at the writing in front of him-- this particular student’s analysis of the assigned poems blurring into nothingness. He read the words over and over but could not register what they were saying. He’d hardly get any grading done at this rate. He stared at the page still, brows furrowed as he focused on figuring out what was distracting him so much.

Flashes of red hair and devilish smirks crossed Aziraphale’s mind. Of course, it was Anthony Crowley on his mind. He realized, all too suddenly, that his preoccupation with the man had crept earlier and earlier into his day. Now sitting at his desk just minutes after the school day, those eyes found a home in his mind.

He removed his glasses and scrubbed at his face. Surely he wasn’t being distracted with some crush as though he was one of the very children he taught. He rested his head in his hands and indulged, momentarily, in his delusions. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, if he allowed himself to indulge, the thoughts would lose their intrigue.

He was truly the only one to blame for giving the distractions a place to take root. Choosing to teach the honeyed words of Marlowe, Donne, and Shakespeare while his brain swirled with thoughts of some otherworldly divine love. As he taught students about Petrarch and his model, he imagined himself writing poems to his distant beloved, just out of his reach.

It was silly really. Crowley and he had shared but one conversation. Yet when their eyes had first met, when Crowley strode in, when he put on that charm, Aziraphale felt a shift. Since Raphael left him nine months ago, he’d felt a bit like he was drifting. They’d been together four years and he just up and left one day. But hearing Crowley’s sweet words, sharing those secret looks, Aziraphale finally felt tethered to the ground.

It gave Aziraphale a tiny shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, divine love did exist. And maybe, just maybe, this could be it. 

Distracted by thoughts of Crowley, Aziraphale didn’t notice the quartet that entered his room. The Them, well-known among faculty, stood before his desk looking between one another and their teacher.

Adam, as usual, broke the silence, “Sir?”

“Oh, heavens,” he looked up at them, startled, “Apologies, Mister Young. Is there something you need?”

He cocked his head as if to analyze Aziraphale’s mood, “It’s not urgent, sir. If you’re busy it can wait. Just a question about our reading assignment.”

“Never a bad time when there’s a question,” he smiled warmly, “What about the assignment?”

Pepper spoke up, “We know you said to work in pairs, but Adam and I and Wensley and Brian all wanted to read the same novel.”

“Would it be possible, sir,” the shy voice of Wensley piped up, “to work as a group?”

Adam took the helm once again, “We’d cover two different topics to make it fair to other pupils, promise.”

Aziraphale fixed them all with a hard gaze, playing the role of difficult teacher, “Seeing as you all work together so often,” he paused to let them show hopeful excitement, “I’ll allow it this once.”

Brian thanked him first, the rest following his suit. The group made their way to the door, chattering excitedly, but Adam, unbelievably perceptive for his years, paused at the doorway, “You know, sir, it’s okay to be distracted sometimes,” he smiled. “Maybe that distraction will lead you to something new and exciting,” they held eye contact for a moment before he joined the rest of the Them.

He chuckled softly to himself, grade eight never failed to disappoint, “Perhaps he has a point,” he mumbled to himself, packing away his grading and setting off for his Friday night visit with Tracy.

As he drove, he was once again swept into a sickly sweet daydream and he gently cursed his brain for easily wrapping him into soft, improbable fantasies.

Before he realized he was punching in the code for Tracy’s flat and letting himself into the building. He knew her first question was going to be about Crowley-- ever since he’d told her about the encounter last week, she wouldn’t shut up about it. He steeled himself as he knocked on the door, knowing full well the door would be unlocked.

Her muffled voice still rang through the door, “Aziraphale, just open the bloody door, will ya?”

He smiled and let himself in and began taking off his coat to hang by the door, “I see you’re in a delightful mood tonight.”

“Had quite the client today, still need to decompress,” her voice carried from somewhere closer to the kitchen, probably getting tea started, “But I want to hear bout you, love. What’s the latest?”

Aziraphale contemplated lying for a brief moment but decided against it. Tracy  _ always _ knew when he was lying, “Still been wrapped up in my foolish fantasies. Nothing new.”

She peaked her head out, “That Crowley character?”

“Who else?” He settled on one of the chairs.

“I never know with you. Could be that bastard.”

“Be nice to Raphael.”

“And why should I? He up and left with barely an ounce of explanation. And he was an arse, Aziraphale.” A gentle silence crept between them. Aziraphale, loathe to admit it, still struggled with Raphael’s decision to leave. He constantly questioned how he could just leave-- if it were something wrong with Aziraphale himself. “But tell me,” Tracy’s voice brought him back from his reverie, “what now with this one.”

He heaved a sigh, “Just my hopeless romanticism seeping into my replays of our interaction. I hardly feel entitled to this level of foolishness after one conversation.”

“Sometimes that's a sure sign it’s meant to be, dearie.” The kettle started screaming.

“Or a sign of delusion.”

“There is an old wives’ tale that if you can’t stop thinking about somebody, it’s because they’re thinking about you.”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, “Don’t feed into this, Tracy.”

“What? I can’t try to push you into being happy?”

“I  _ am _ happy. I have my job and my books and you.”

Aziraphale could hear the frustration in her voice, “You know what I mean, Aziraphale. I just think you should try it out, use your brother to your advantage for once.”

“I don’t even know if he’s gay, Tracy!”

“Would it ease your mind if I told you my psychic abilities told me he is?” She popped her head out again and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “Fine, well, a man doesn’t act like that unless he’s interested. I have a feeling in my gut, dearie. Give him a chance.”

“He has a girlfriend,” she walked into the room, tray fixed with tea.

“So? Said yourself that he knows he’s unhappy. You could swoop in, save the day.”

He shot her a pointed look, “I’m not committing adultery.”

“No one said anything about that, now,” she sat a cup in front of him, “Just that you maybe could lure him away.”

Another glare, “That’s not morally sound, dear.”

“Screw your morals for once. And screw your complacency,” she gave her a very sharp look of her own, “I’m tired of you letting things pass you by because you’re too afraid to do something.”

He sipped his tea in silence, trying to think of a comeback. It was true that he often let things slip away because he was too afraid to reach out for them. He let Raphael slip away for that very reason, “Well he’s not good for me anyway, Tracy. Much too roguish.”

He heard a long, strained sigh, “Tell yourself whatever you need to sleep at night. You’re letting a good one slip away, I can feel it.”

They drank in silence for a moment and let the conversation pick up on different topics until Tracy was yawning at half-past eight.

“Already?” Aziraphale shot her a playful glance.

“Don’t mistake this for age, dearie. Had a rather… energetic client earlier today. Took all my damn energy.”

Aziraphale collected their cups and started for the sink, “Well, I best head home then.”

“Nonsense, stop by the cafe by your flat. It’s late night. And I know you have work to do. You still have energy in you, I can tell. Get some work done, love.”

He groaned slightly, “I suppose your right. Marks are due soon,” he rinsed the cups and left them in the sink, “I’ll see you next Friday?”

She smiled warmly kissing his cheeks, “Always, dearie.”

While driving back toward Soho, he thought back to Tracy’s remark about the old wives’ tale. He didn’t want to feed into the prospect, but the idea of Crowley being as hung up on him as he was on Crowley was intoxicating even at thirty-four. He hoped to stow away those thoughts for another day, opting to focus on his work.

Tracy was right, of course, as she normally was, that Aziraphale was still full of energy. An unusual occurrence for him. He opted to park his car near his flat and walk to the cafe. Umbrella in hand in case of rain.

He quite enjoyed the stroll over, watching throngs of people weave about the streets. Normally these large crowds drove him a bit mad, but tonight he looked on with a sort of fondness.

Before he’d even realized, he found himself outside of the cafe, pushing in the door. He ordered his tea and sat to begin the tireless process of marking papers.

Between papers, he found himself engrossed by the patrons of the cafe. A young couple at a table, tucked away; an older gentleman reading a paper, grumbling; a few flamboyant twenty-somethings, chatting about some drama. People came in and out, and Aziraphale worked his way through half the work. Taking a break, he began watching again when the bell above the door grabbed his attention. Swaggering in, he immediately recognized Crowley. A tangle of legs wrapped in tight leather, his dark gray shirt clinging to his body, hair partly braided, and a slew of metal around him, a necklace, rings, belt, earrings. He looked the complete opposite of what Aziraphale saw last and at least ten years younger. And, against his better judgment, that only made his heart pound harder.

Crowley leaned onto the counter, evidently flirting with the barista. Aziraphale busied himself with his work, pretending not to hear Crowley’s laugh ring out— a melody Aziraphale would play repeatedly in his mind until he heard it again.

Then he felt it. The heat of Crowley’s intense gaze boring into the top of his skull. Gently, slowly, he raised his head to meet Crowley’s eyes.

For a brief moment, panic seemed to wash over him, but it melted away as he walked towards Aziraphale’s table.

His smile put Aziraphale in a daze in an instant, “Aziraphale! Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this.”

He looked around, “A late-night cafe?”

“Well, a cafe this late in Soho.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, “Quite the assumption to make off of a brief conversation.”

He watched the gears turn as Crowley stuttered, trying to grasp at straws, “Well—” he was cut off by his order being called out. He smiled sheepishly and went to retrieve it, nothing but black coffee in the cup. “As I was saying before I was interrupted,” he cleared his throat, “you did make quite a number of assumptions about me in our first meeting, if I remember correctly.”

“I made assumptions?” Aziraphale was shocked at the suggestion, “I asked you questions before I made assessments out loud.”

“Aha! Out loud being the key.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes in response, warning himself a rather devilish grin, “Yes, well we all make assumptions based on first glance.” He adjusted the papers in front of him and folded his hands under the table, “For example, I assumed you would act like a complete arse in only our second conversation.” 

Crowley choked on his coffee a bit, “I’m sorry, what? Am I acting like an arse?” Genuine concern etched itself onto his face. Aziraphale raised a single eyebrow in response. “Shit, angel, I didn’t mean anything by it. Honest. Just a surprise to see you all laced up out in a scene like Soho, ‘s all.”

Aziraphale softened a bit, he’d only meant to hassle him a bit, “If you must know, I live here. In Soho, that is.”

Mental pieces began clicking again, Crowley’s face never ceasing to express his thoughts, “Now that would make sense. Why Soho?”

A wily smile found a home on Aziraphale’s lips, “Oh that is a tale for another day,” he began reminiscing on his days immediately out of university, the bright life of Soho, the drag and show of it all. His experiences in those parts of Soho culture were best left untouched for now. “Suffice it to say I enjoyed the culture. And the food.”

“The culture, huh? Doesn’t really seem your scene.”

“Just as it doesn’t seem yours,” he gave Crowley a pointed look.

“Why wouldn’t it seem mine?”

“You seem more, oh, I don't know the term. Punk? is that it?”

That earned him a belly laugh from Crowley, “do you mind if I sit, stay awhile?”

Aziraphale gestured to the seat next to him and looked at him curiously, “You don’t have plans?”

Crowley shrugged, “Nah, nothing important.”

“You certainly seem dressed up for something,” Aziraphale used that as an excuse to take a long look at Crowley’s appearance, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Crowley, who seemed to open up the more Aziraphale looked.

“Like I said, nothing more important than being here,” his cheeks blared red at the admission, “chatting with you is far easier than meeting a stranger ‘round these parts.”

“Ah, I see,” a silence fell between them as Aziraphale fidgeted with his papers, still too afraid to ask about Crowley's sexuality. While Soho was known for its gay nightlife, that didn’t mean all those who participated were part of that community.

Crowley broke the silence looking at the papers between them, “That work?”

Aziraphale hummed, “Yes. Marks are due soon and I’m quite behind.”

“You’re a teacher?” There was a sense of wonder in Crowley's face.

“Most days, yes,” he smiled.

“What grade? Little ones? Primary?”

“No, grade 8,” he laughed quietly at Crowley's grimace, “They seem a bother but they’re delightful when you adjust to that period of growth. And they’re so creative.”

Crowley scrunched his nose, “S’pose so. What subject?” he looked over the papers trying to find some indication, “s’that poetry?”

Aziraphale pushed the papers a little closer to him, “Yes, poetry. I teach English.”

He saw a small, genuine smile creep onto Crowley’s face, “Renaissance love poems, huh? Good choice.”

There was shock in Aziraphale’s tone, “You recognize the authors?”

“Back to assumptions are we?” Crowley threw a devilish look to Aziraphale who rolled his eyes, “I studied literature at uni. Mostly used it to study story patterns but I loved poetry. Not to mention, Shakespeare and Marlowe aren’t exactly hidden gems, angel.”

“I suppose not,” he eyed Crowley as he leafed through some of the students' responses. He had a playful light in his eyes, until something must have hit a little too close. His face fell and he seemed to become overwhelmed with anxiety, “Something wrong?”

He glanced quickly over to Aziraphale and averted his eyes, “Nothing, no. Not a thing. Perfectly peachy, me.” He dropped the papers crooked, leaving the page that shocked him evident.

Aziraphale looked at the name: Adam Young. Of course. “Read a response that struck a chord?”

There was a silence before a quiet response, “Felt like the kid could see into my soul with that.”

“Which question?”

“The one about Marlowe.”

Aziraphale read Adam's answer. He'd asked students to analyze the final two lines of the poem— something about the difference in love that we choose versus a love that chooses us. He had designed the question to have students begin to think about how authors wanted others to connect with their literature. Adam’s answer was, as it usually was, spot on:

“Marlowe claims that falling in love at first sight is more powerful than choosing a lover because the love at first sight is fated. To laugh in the face of Fate would be to reject your destiny. This would help modern audience members feel valid in their decisions of choosing what feels like true love over something that others deem the ‘right’ love.”

Aziraphale smiled, “Mr. Young is rather insightful for his age.”

Crowley shook his head, “Clearly. Gave me a fright with that.”

“Believe me, he does it often. Just today I swear he could see into the depths of my soul.”

Crowley cocked his head at that, anxiety slowly dissipating, “Got some turmoil in there?”

He gave Crowley a sideways glance, “I don't know about turmoil. But I certainly don’t need a child knowing my personal affairs.”

“Anything exciting happening there?” a small smirk grew on his face.

Aziraphale sent him a pointed look, “If you recall, I lead a pretty boring lifestyle.”

Crowley scrunched his face at that, “Don’t think it’s boring. D’you enjoy it?”

“Of course.”

“Then it’s not boring. Just because someone’s idea of fun isn’t the same as yours, doesn’t make your life boring,” there was a pause as Crowley seemed to contemplate something. With a gentler voice, he locked eyes with Crowley, “Your ex tell you that?”

There was a sincerity in his face and voice that nearly made Aziraphale breakdown and admit everything Raphael had ever said, but his anxiety wound up faster, closing him off, “I hardly think that’s information fitting for a conversation between strangers.”

“We weren’t strangers when you pointed out the flaws in my relationship.”

Aziraphale gawked at that. Crowley's comment left a sting, even though he stated it with no malice.

“Don’t mean to push you or anything. Just a bit unfair is all.”

A brief silence fell between them as Aziraphale worked at the end of one of the napkins on the table. Slowly he worked the wall down enough to let Crowley in, “He did say that to me. often.”

He felt something warm envelop the hands worrying at the napkin, shocked to see Crowley's slender hand covering both of his. When he met Crowley’s gaze, he felt frozen in place, the same sense of security washing over him as had during their first meeting, “He’s wrong. Dead wrong. Live your life the way you please, angel.”

“You keep calling me that.”

Crowley withdrew his hand to tug it through his hair, “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll stop if you like, just fits you.”

Aziraphale contemplated a moment. “I don’t see any problem with it. Though I do recall telling you I’m not wholly angelic.”

That same wily grin returned to Crowley’s face, “That’s a side I’d like to see.”

Aziraphale grew a bit flustered— flirting was never really his forte, “Well, I don’t— I’m not quite sure, erm—“

Crowley's laughter eased the nerves rising in Aziraphale, “You’re a funny one, Aziraphale,” his smile was warm, genuine. One that Aziraphale would paint in his daydreams over and over, “No rush to show me your secrets. Though you seem quick to pick up on mine.”

“Reading people is a skill I had to develop. Sometimes you need it as a teacher.”

Crowley hummed, seemingly distracted by Aziraphale’s appearance. He shifted his gaze outside, feeling Crowley’s eyes stay on the side of his face. A companionable silence fell between them as Aziraphale stared at rain drops that started pelting the windows. The hazy glow of neon reflecting gently off the wet pavement.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, who’s eyes never left his face.

“Bit like you,” Crowley’s earnest expression and tone made Aziraphale blush, looking away. “Pardon the forward remarks.”

When Aziraphale chanced a glance at Crowley, he saw that his cheeks were also blazing pink and his gaze was averted, “Not at all. You’re one to remark on beauty,” it was a risk that paid off, pink spreading up to Crowley’s ears as Aziraphale fought back a smile.

The pair sat in their warm silence, nothing but smiles and brief stares passing between them until they’d finished their drinks.

“Getting late,” Crowley’s voice came out husky and quiet.

Aziraphale eyed him, “Quite.”

“Walk you home?”

“Well,” he paused, weighing the option, “I suppose that would be all right.”

The smile that lit up Crowley’s face made Aziraphale’s heart clench. He’d do damn near anything to see that smile again. Crowley glance outside and his face fell, “Don’t have an umbrella, though. Bit of a problem, that.”

Aziraphale smiled tapping his own umbrella tip to the floor, “No matter, dear boy. We can share.”

“Dear boy?” Crowley’s brows pulled together, his eyes dancing with a playful light, “What is this the eighteen hundreds?”

“I could call you a right bastard, would that work more for you?” He wore an innocent face as Crowley paused, shocked as he held the door open for Aziraphale.

He burst into laughter, jogging to catch up and duck under Aziraphale’s umbrella, “You’re funny, angel.”

He wore a smug look now, basking in the praise, “I know that, dear. I’m glad you’ve finally discovered that.”

Crowley laughed time himself quietly and allowed a comfortable silence to settle between the two.

There was something electric passing between the two as they got closer to Aziraphale’s flat. Though they could both feel the tense energy, neither of them chose to acknowledge it. They rounded the corner of the bookshop below and found the alley leading to Aziraphale’s home.

“Well then,” the space between them was tight, causing Aziraphale’s breath to hitch.

“Right,” Crowley shifted awkwardly, “I’ll see you ‘round, then?”

Aziraphale smiled, “I would hope so.” A silence filled the space between them again, neither wanting to break the moment.

“I’ll be off,” Crowley began to turn until Aziraphale grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” they both fell stunned, “oh dear, take my umbrella. I’d hate for you to catch a cold in this weather.”

Crowley’s eyes drew together, confused, “Just a bit of rain, angel. Nothing too serious.”

Desperate, Aziraphale squeezed his arm a little tighter for a moment, “Take it as a promise, then.”

“A promise?”

“That we’ll see each other again?”

There was a beat between them. In those few seconds, Aziraphale felt the anxiety rising in him again. Perhaps he had been too forward or thought this too much like one of his Victorian romances.

Until Crowley spoke, urgent and excited, “All right. A promise then.”

They smiled at one another, giddy as two school children.

“Right. Good night then, Crowley.”

“Good night, angel,” he laughed under his breath and turned back down the street.

Breathless and quickly becoming wet, Aziraphale rushed into his flat, ridding himself of his wet clothes for something cozier and much drier. Only after he’d settled down with his tea and blanket and book did he realize that he’d given his umbrella to a near-perfect stranger with no way of reaching them except a chance encounter.

“Good heavens,” he closed his book and nestled into his bed, perfectly sure that his dreams would be of Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the marlowe poem being referenced is the last stanza of Hero and Leander, the lines specifically referenced are "Where both deliberate, the love is slight: / Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?" also having taught grades 7-8, some kids really do come in with insight like that that scares me.
> 
> anywayyyyy next week is gonna be a totally different vibe where we'll meet crowley's therapist and we'll get to see a whole host of mental health conversations. hope y'all are excited!! again, if you guys wanna see something explore, please let me know in your comments (which made me all smiley last week, thank y'all).


	3. scrawny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for some drunken behavior and therapy sessions. also i use the term mania lightly in this chapter. the behaviors crowley exhibits are definitely manic but nothing like the mania experienced from actual bpd. full disclosure on that.
> 
> title is from "Scrawny" by Wallows which, i found out while looking up lyrics, is that guy from 13rw's band. didn't expect for some reason. i really recommend listening to this song (and all their music tbh). i struggled to pick just one lil bit of lyrics for this chapter.

_ "It isn't all about what you see. Question though how do I look to you? Am I so thin that you could see through?" _

* * *

Crowley stumbled into the cafe the following weekend. He'd, once again, planned on going out to the clubs in Soho but, unlike last time, gotten far too drunk at B’s flat before leaving. He certainly wasn’t in his twenties anymore.

He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was that caused him to drink that much brandy. Maybe it was the constant sight of that umbrella leaning up against the wall by the door reminding him of what he shouldn’t be coveting so much.

Or maybe it was the phone call from Michael he’d received earlier that week. She finally found a new place. He could move back the following week. Their relationship was officially done.

Her voice had been so cold yet so full of joy. She was ready to start her new life. And Crowley knew it was for the best and was more than happy to live for himself again. But that gnawing fear of eternal loneliness settled into his gut.

Maybe it had been a combination of the two. That fear eating him up while staring at the umbrella perched by the door. How could he be so sure that Aziraphale could ever want him? How had he convinced himself that he was even worth Aziraphale’s time?

The mania had set in after his call with Michael. He’d bought a new wardrobe. Gone out nearly every night to chat with people anywhere he could find them— always stopping by the cafe in case Aziraphale happened in, though he knew it improbable considering he was a teacher. But he could never hold a conversation for very long. He barely slept, mind constantly racing, trying its damnedest to distract him from that gnawing fear. He'd even gotten that cool snake tattoo he’d wanted since he was twenty at his temple.

He was spiraling out of control and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that. But there was no controlling it once it took hold.

He’d always been like this after breakups. He'd hoped with the delayed response his age might have toned it down a bit. But that wasn’t the case.

So on this Friday night, he drank. He drank enough to shut the constant thoughts up and focus his drifting attention.

The alcohol was a wonder on curbing his hyperactive brain. It was not, however, a wonder for his impulsive decision making. So he put on his tightest, darkest jeans; a shirt tight enough that nearly every muscle and sinew under his skin could be seen; smeared eyeliner he hadn’t used since before Michael onto his eyes; and sauntered down to the cafe, umbrella in hand.

So now he found himself drearily scanning for a platinum head of curls— eyes unable to focus.

“Crowley?” his voice sang out somewhere to Crowley’s left.

When he spotted him, he broke into the widest smile, nearly yelling in the quiet little shop, “Angel!”

He stumbled over sliding ungracefully into the seat across from Aziraphale in the booth. He looked his upper half up and down openly. He'd taken off the jacket and waistcoat he’d worn that day leaving him in his button-up, top button undone to allow him some breathing room and sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Crowley was enraptured by how someone so put together could make him come so undone with a mere show of neck and forearms.

“Can you hear me, Crowley?” Crowley saw a hand wave in front of him and hummed, hearing Aziraphale mutter something quietly under his breath.

“‘M fine, angel. ‘Stracted’s’all,” he was slurring heavily.

His brows drew together in that adorable way that always let Crowley know he was fretting when he needn’t, “Is everything all right?”

“M’fine!” He let a lazy smile fall into place, “Fact ‘mmuch better with you ‘ere.”

A light blush warmed Aziraphale’s cheeks, contrasting his now stern face, “Are you positive?”

Crowley shrugged dramatically, “You want the truth, angel?” He motioned for Aziraphale to come closer, “I’ve got a bit of a crush.”

Aziraphale shot away, “What about your girlfriend?”

“Ex,” Crowley leaned back, crossing his arms. Aziraphale had to stop his heart from racing. Sure Crowley was single, he still didn’t know if he liked men. “She’s movin’ out the flat. Get to move back home now.”

“Have you not been staying there?”

“Nah. Wanted to give’r space, y’know?” He leaned onto his elbows, “‘S hard. All this. On her.”

Aziraphale let a disbelieving laugh, “Just her?”

Crowley didn’t respond, just looked out the window. His thoughts began racing again, “Brought your umbrella.”

“I see that,” his voice was gentler now.

“Promised I’d seeya’gain.”

“I’m quite happy you fulfilled that promise, dear boy.”

His head whipped to face Aziraphale again, “S’that right?”

Aziraphale swallowed nervously, the intensity of Crowley’s attention making him shrink a bit, “Quite so.”

“I’ve been counting the days. Hours, even,” he saw the shock in Aziraphale’s widening eyes. “Can’t get m’mind off you.”

Aziraphale began fidgeting a bit, “Is that so?”

“Only think about you, really,” Crowley leaned onto the table once more, “All sorta things‘bout you.” There was a small gulp from across the table, making Crowley smile like a hunter finding its prey. “Always so buttoned-up, you. Can’t help but wonder…” he trailed off, letting his eyes trail down his body slowly, head cocked.

Aziraphale stuttered, unable to get his bearings, heat spreading down his neck with those eyes pinning him in place.

A part of Crowley’s sober brain was screaming for him to stop, but the drunk part pretended not to hear, “Lotsa things I’d like t’turn from thoughts t’actions.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice came out weak and quiet.

Crowley didn’t register his name coming out of Aziraphale’s mouth, “Really love t’take you up to m’flat. Figure out what you’ve got hidden under there,” he pointed to Aziraphale’s shirt, “n’there,” he pointed his finger towards Aziraphale’s trousers.

Aziraphale’s cheeks were damn near red now, excitement and anxiety coursing through him at the same time, “Crowley, really--”

“‘M so curious,” he couldn’t stop his mouth from moving even though the voice in him was shrieking to knock it off, “what y’feel like. Mouth ‘n hands.”

“Really now, Crowley,” he was growing more and more flustered.

“The weight of you on top of me.”

Aziraphale began grabbing his belongings, rushing to go, “Anthony.”

That caught Crowley’s attention, though it nearly broke Aziraphale’s heart seeing the hurt look on Crowley’s face. 

He looked down towards his feet, sullen, “‘M sorry. Bit carried away.”

“Don’t apologize, I just-- I can’t do this, right now, Crowley.” He slid out of the seat and moved to go but paused, reaching out to Crowley’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze, “Until next time, dear boy.”

Crowley let his head fall into his hands, voices of anger and disgust rallying against his brain until he caught sight of something in the corner of his eye.

The umbrella remained leaning against the table, a glimmer of hope.

While the sight of the umbrella provided a light, his constant stream of thoughts continued to rail into him as he went to order coffee, attempting to sober up before going home.

The conversation replayed in his head as his drunkenness faded and a headache began. It was foolish and honestly a bit embarrassing. But there was no time to dwell.

He downed his cup of coffee, grabbed the umbrella, and returned to his temporary flat. Stumbling to the bathroom he stabilized himself on the sink.

Once again Crowley stared into his reflection. Voices overlapped in his head screaming this way and that. Praising his beauty, ridiculing his behavior, commenting on the new tattoo, suggesting things to do.

He stared and stared until his reflection no longer seemed real. Then the voices all rallied together, commenting on his appearance. Talking about his hair at length. He took a look at himself, his long locks. He’d maintained these for the entirety of his relationship with Michael.

With that, it was like he was no longer in his body. He replayed in his mind all the moments Michael had said something about his hair. Meanwhile, he rummaged through B’s drawers. They had to have a pair of scissors somewhere.

Disconnected from his body he clutched his newfound prize. Shiny and sharp, probably used for the at-home haircuts B gave themself. Voices still spinning, everything became silent as the scissors made their first cut. Nothing but the sound of hair being cut short.

He didn’t know when he’d finished. Nor when he’d swept the floor or changed clothes or made a cup of coffee. He didn’t realize he’d stayed awake until nearly five am, coffee in hand. Everything had fallen silent and time passed by unnoticed.

He redressed himself for the day and began walking and walking and walking. Until he found a bench in a park. Though in this state he couldn’t tell which park.

The birds flitted about above him, singing an early morning song as the sun’s rays began to poke through the clouds. another rainy fall day was ahead of them.

Crowley ran his hands through his hair absent-mindedly, surprised when he felt the locks stop at his chin. His actions mere hours earlier not quite settling in.

He took stock of his environment: it was somewhere around six, frigid— the surrounding air nearly chilling him to the bone in his light jacket, the bench beneath him felt harsh against his body. But the birds trilled their songs and, if he blotted out the early morning traffic, he could hear the gentle movements along the water. He took a deep breath in, stabling himself. The post-breakup mania had him strongly in its grip this time. But now there was a stillness in him.

Then a voice, “Crowley?”

He turned to meet its owner, knowing he would see those platinum curls he craved constantly these days, “Morning' angel!” cheery as ever, surely he looked mad. “What are you doing about so early?”

Aziraphale hesitated, taking in Crowley’s new appearance with a minor look of worry, “I go for walks in the morning every day to clear my head,” a pause for emphasis, “and yourself, dear boy?”

“Ah,” Crowley rose slowly, feeling his body groan as he got up. Surely he hadn’t been sitting that long, “Just... about, you know.”

Aziraphale hummed, concern etching itself into his brow line. The pair stood in silence, willing the other to break it.

“Well don’t let me stop you,” Crowley caved, “carry on.”

“I think I would quite like some company” Aziraphale looked partially through his lashes, glancing away before looking once more. A slight attempt at begging that Crowley was far too susceptible to.

Crowley shrugged and began walking, Aziraphale quickly matching stride. They walked in silence a long while, both taking in their surroundings and the other. Their last interaction poking around their brains.

For Crowley, he couldn’t help but feel a little mortified. He hadn’t meant to come on so strong. He'd been terrified that he’d shoved Aziraphale away.

But to Aziraphale, Crowley just seemed lost. As though someone had cut the tie anchoring him to shore after all these years. There was concern, of course, but more so a friendly curiosity. A hope that he would find his way back. A desire to watch him navigate himself back to land. And, of course, that pesky little desire for something domestic with the man.

His steps faltered a moment bringing Crowley a few paces ahead of him before he turned to face him. They’d never seen each other in such early light and they could both see age starting to make itself known on the other’s face. Lines that stayed hidden in the soft light of the cafe that became apparent in the early morning. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat, “Crowley?” the man raised his eyebrows in response, his face attempting to remain emotionless, terror flooding through him, “It’s not my place to say but, you’ve been acting rather... odd lately.”

“Odd?” it came out sounding broken.

“It's just that you seem a little, well, lost, is all.” There was a pause, “I worry, you know.”

“Lost? Me? Nah. No need to worry about me, angel. I take care of myself,” his tone verged on bitter though he willed it not to be.

“I have no doubt that you do, Crowley. That’s not why I worry.” He always had a way of staring straight into Crowley's depths. The idea of being laid so bare would terrify him if it were anyone else other than Aziraphale. “I worry, dear, that you think you have to take care of yourself on your own.”

“On my own?”

“That you need only rely on yourself.”

Crowley shifted. Michael had never been keen on helping him through anything and he hated to burden B with nonsense they needn’t know. “Don’t like bothering others, ‘sides my therapist.”

“It's not a bother if I want to help,” again silence flitted between them. “I’m never going to force you to tell me your worries. And I'll never force my help on you. But there are people who care for you Crowley— myself included. You don’t have to hide everything.”

He weighed the truth of that statement, though he knew Aziraphale was genuine through and through. Quietly, almost as if not to be heard, he responded. “I don’t know that I deserve all that.”

The distance between the two men was shortened in an instant, “Don’t be daft, Crowley,” he lifted Crowley’s chin so they could look one another in the eye, “You deserve everything.”

Moments like these are when time stops. The world around them came to a halt, the only actions that mattered were the breathing they shared as they stared at one another. Both knowing, yet not knowing, that everything in the world had stopped to bear witness to the beginning of something. Something far greater than they were presently aware of.

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds but it stretched on for eons. And just like that, Crowley’s smile set the world in motion again, “Maybe I’ll chat about it with the loon doctor today.” That earned him a playful swat. “Oh, fuck. Your umbrella!”

Aziraphale’s brows furrowed, “What about my umbrella?”

“Left it at the flat! You forgot it last night.”

“Oh,” a cheeky smile formed on Aziraphale’s face, “I didn’t forget it, dear. Forgetting implies an accident of sorts.” Crowley stood stock still, a mixture of awe and fear coursing through him. “Would you like to grab breakfast? If you have time before your appointment, that is.”

Crowley found a way out of his shock, “Mmmm, yeah. I’ve got time. Appointment’s at 8.”

Aziraphale smiled broad and sweet, “I know a place, then.”

The morning was, unsurprisingly, spectacular. They talked mostly about Aziraphale’s work and the classes they’d both taken at uni. Two English majors having a rousing debate at seven in the morning might have irritated the people around them, but they had a good time.

Crowley had insisted the poets of the Renaissance and Ancient Greece had really figured out how poetry ought to be. Aziraphale much preferred the Romantics-- Arguing that Lord Byron could run circles around Donne. They both agreed that none could really touch Shakespeare. But that sparked another debate. Crowley insisted that his comedies were much more enjoyable, Aziraphale countering that the tragedies allowed audiences to see their own flaws reflected back to them.

Crowley checked his watch, “Shit! It’s half seven. I’ve gotta get going.”

“Well, I’ll see you ‘round then?”

He hesitated, “The cafe? Tonight?”

“Quite a lot of your company recently,” Aziraphale eyed him, “but I’ll be there.”

Crowley smiled broadly, ignoring the voice that said this was far too good to be true for him, and left a few notes for the bill with Aziraphale before heading to Anathema.

* * *

Crowley nervously bounced his leg outside of Anathema’s office. As much as therapy benefited him, the waiting and sessions themselves spiked Crowley's anxiety. Especially the waiting. 

And this week Crowley had to tell Anathema he broke up with Michael. And about Aziraphale.

Rationally, he knew she would have little to say about the matter other than questions of how he was handling it. At the very worst, she’d have no comment whatsoever. At best, praise his decisions. She may want to work on the damage done in the relationship, but that wasn’t the breakup.

Rationally, this wasn’t an issue that should worry him. But there was little about Crowley that was rational.

The door to her office opened and he looked up to meet her gaze: still welcoming and perceptive.

Crowley had chosen Anathema as a therapist for three reasons: first, she was the boldest personality he’d met in a therapy session. She took no excuses and often forced Crowley to acknowledge unsettling truths.

Second, she was young and unafraid to try alternative medicine. Crowley didn’t believe that crystals and oils would change his life, but he knew that anathema was creative enough to find different solutions to his age-old problems.

Lastly, she was incredibly perceptive, able to pick up on even the slightest change of tone or intake of breath to determine a change in emotion.

As he rose to enter her office, he watched her eyes scan his appearance (a sharp shift from his usual attire), his new hair, his gait and slump of his shoulders, even the way he greeted her. He knew by her smile, she wouldn’t be surprised by the news in the slightest.

“New hair! I like it.” He smiled nervously at her, “So, Crowley,” they settled into their respective spaces on their two armchairs, “anything new this month?”

“I broke up with Michael.”

She nodded, “What prompted that?”

Crowley ran an anxious hand through his hair, “Met a guy. He caught my interest.”

She scanned his posture, “Is that the whole story?”

“No,” he heaved a sigh. Silence filling the space between them.

She sipped the coffee she always had next to her, “Was there something about him that triggered that kind of response?”

“Not exactly. He said some things.”

“Any particular things?”

“That I deserve to be happy.”

She smiled, “What a radical idea. He's right, you know,” she let that settle into the space between them, “So what about that comment made you break up with Michael?”

Another sigh, “Well she made me unhappy.”

“Good, you were able to identify that as a problem. Are you ready to dive into why she made you so unhappy?”

Crowley's leg began bobbing in response. When he sat with that question, he realized he wasn’t truly too anxious about his breakup with Michael. He was terrified to dig into the many problems that their relationship had.

“Crowley, it’s okay if you’re not ready to dive into that yet. Obviously it was a deeply flawed relationship and that’s okay. Doesn’t mean either of you were bad people, just bad for each other.”

“I just don’t even know where to begin. Your thirties are supposed to be when you’ve got it all sorted and the end of us feels like I’ve got nothing sorted at all. I’m drifting in space with no place to go.”

“You have places to go. Remember what we talked about?”

“I have a job that I love as a safety net when I feel I’ve nothing, yes.”

“Where else?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, “My friend. Well friends now, I suppose. Added one to the group.”

“Tell me about them.”

“It’s the guy I met, actually.”

Anathema clocked something about his demeanor immediately, “We’ll get back to that. But remember, you have accomplished so much. And you do have everything sorted out. Do you think a clueless man could make the decision to break up with someone who isn’t good for him?” Crowley shook his head. “Exactly. Besides, even if you were a bit lost, who cares? People are growing up all the time-- they could be fifty or seventy and realize they’re a little lost after some introspection.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“To be frank, Crowley, benchmarks that we put on aging are a load of bullshit.”

Crowley laughed at that, “I know they are. It’s hard not to compare yourself to some universal standard.”

“Well you weren’t like that once, right? We talked about that.”

“Yeah,” Crowley chuckled, drifting into nostalgia, “before Michael I didn’t care what anyone thought or how I compared to anyone.”

“That’s the person I want to see you morph into again. That’s part of you that’s under all that mess your relationship with Michael made. Mind you, it won’t be the same twenty-something Crowley. He’ll be new and so much stronger in his ability to not care.”

“Twenty-something Crowley didn’t care because he thought that’s how it was supposed to be. I don’t think it was ever genuine.”

Anathema smiled at him, it was a small thing but it conveyed determination and surety, “It will be this time. Now that you don’t have someone reinforcing the unhelpful thoughts you have, I think it will be a little easier.”

“Right.”

“Now, we’ll get back to the issues with your ex next time, so think about those. But, tell me about the man.”

“The man that made me see how miserable I was?”

“Yes, Crowley, that one.”

“I’ve become a bit obsessed,” he squirmed in his spot, “well not obsessed, really. More so just infatuated”

“Okay.”

“I just can’t get him off my mind. And shouldn’t that be like a problem? I've just ended a relationship with someone I dated for, what, six years only three weeks ago? And I’m suddenly obsessed with this new man?”

“Do you think that’s strange?”

Crowley's face quirked up in confusion, “Isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s just it isn’t it? It’s been six years since you’ve seriously entertained the thought of someone new. I think it would be natural to latch onto someone who showed you a new light.”

Crowley hesitated, “I don't know.”

Anathema eyed him suspiciously, “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

“Anyone who wasn’t you might think I've gone mad,” Anathema raised her brows again, willing Crowley to continue. “Me and this man were chatting and there was a moment where everything kinda just... made sense?”

“How so?”

Crowley let out a long sigh, avoiding eye contact, “It’s was like, fuckin’ hell I can’t believe I’m saying this— like I’d found my soulmate.”

A small smile formed on Anathema’s lips, “I don’t see an issue with that in the slightest. Messages or feelings like that are hardly ever from the conscious mind.”

“But you have to admit it’s absolutely mental.”

“I don't think so,” Anathema shrugged, “I think you find such an issue with it because you don’t think you deserve something that makes you feel that content.”

She delivered the blow with such casualty it knocked the wind from Crowley. His face took a journey and Anathema watched patiently. “Well,” he drew it out sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Are you willing to try something for me? To try and combat that feeling that you’re undeserving?”

Crowley hung his head, “Sure. Can’t hurt.”

“When you feel incredibly happy, like something is almost too good to be true, I want you to try two things, in this order. First, pause and remind yourself, with false confidence if you have to, ‘I deserve this.’”

“Easy enough,” Crowley nodded.

“Then I want you to take a picture of something that will help you remember that moment or find a keepsake. Or both!”

Crowley screwed his face up, “Won’t that take me out of the moment?”

“With practice, no. But, it will give you an entire album of moments to remind you of your joy.”

“‘N how’s that supposed to help me feel like I deserve it?”

“When you have those moments where those nasty little demons in your head try to tell you that you don’t deserve something, you have an entire album to prove hey, I deserved these things! I have evidence to prove it.” Crowley shot her a skeptical look and she sighed, “Okay Mister Skepticism, let me explain the psychology behind it.”

They spent the remainder of the session debating the efficacy of such a practice until Anathema finally looked at him in the eye, leveling with him, “Crowley, it’s one strategy. We’ve tried journaling and you hate that. The affirmations are working as effectively as they can for now. You have to try something. This mixes affirmations, which aren’t tangible, with a photo or thing that reminds you it was real, tangible.”

Crowley crossed his arms, “Fine. I’ll try it. Maybe even tonight.”

“Tonight?” Anathema gave him a questioning look, “You’re seeing him? Your soulmate?”

“Don’t use that phrase.” His face screwed up making Anathema laugh, “Yes. Coffee ‘n such.”

Anathema smiled, “Take it easy with that one. If you want it to work, I want you to work through your issues with this breakup and the trauma Michael has left you. That means going slowly.”

Crowley groaned, “‘M not good at slow.”

“I know you’re not. But we’ll try to work through this as quickly as possible. I wanna bump you from once a month to twice a month.”

“If it’ll help.”

“I think it will,” Anathema checked her watch, “we’ve got about five minutes. Anything else you wanna talk about?”

“I think that’s it. Well besides the fact that clearly,” he pointed to his head, “I had a bit of a manic episode.”

“Are you feeling better now? Do we need to schedule an extra session?”

“Nah, I think it’s passed. Normally ends with one big dramatic act. Like cutting off my hair.”

“As long as you feel alright. If you ever need an extra session I always leave room for some emergencies.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s settled. Let’s schedule for two weeks, then.”

They finished up the session and he took the same route past the little shop Aziraphale and he’d eaten at. The window where they’d sat was now empty but seeing the storefront brought his heart a little joy.

“I deserve this.”

He took out his phone and took a quick picture of the front, counting down the hours until he’d see Aziraphale again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun flirty fresh. where's the conflict? haven't met 'em yet. (five more chapters 'til we do ;))
> 
> this took me a lot more edits this go. something about writing a therapist scene. it's weird bc i was in therapy for nearly a decade and i was parroting a lot of what i heard from my last therapist (tysm Michelle). anyway i recommend therapy to anyone who has the access to it and feels like they could benefit from it bc it literally changed my life.
> 
> also pls note, i will be returning to teach in ab 8 weeks sooo my production my might slow down a bit. i'm gonna try to utilize the slowness of the first month to pound out some writing but we'll see how it goes. i want to get y'all out of the angst without long waits bc it's gonna get ANGSTY.
> 
> okay that's all this week kudos n comments are the sweetest and they make my heart ooze.


	4. take you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hi sorry for the delay. end notes for an explanation!!
> 
> title/lyric is from "Take You" by Early Eyes

_ "It's a lovely night, the first in some good time. For all my years, I've been living by the rules of your smile." _

* * *

Aziraphale checked his watch for the fourth time in the past twenty minutes. It wasn’t like him to worry this much about something as simple as meeting a friend. But those anxieties created by Raphael swirled in his head.

_ He could just abandon you at any point, you know? Almost better that it happens before you get too attached. _

He tried his best to ignore the voice swirling around his head. After all, they’d never agreed on a time. Just that they meet in the cafe. At night. Per usual.

He bounced his leg under the table as he fiddled with the family ring on his pinkie. Crowley was truly doing a number to his nerves.

He stared out the window, checking his watch nearly every minute, still trying to shove those anxieties away.

“Angel!” Aziraphale looked towards Crowley, breath caught in his throat.

He wasn't dressed too differently than Aziraphale had yet to see. A snug but not entirely too tight gray sweater paired with his trademark dark skinny jeans and a pair of boots. His hair was mostly pulled away from his face, a few loose strands framing his face. It was, however, the first time he’d seen Crowley look truly comfortable. He looked absolutely divine.

“Sorry if I kept you. Lost track of time. And we never really set a time to begin with.” In reality, Crowley had been cycling through his entire closet for something to wear, making all kinds of disgruntled noises. Eventually, B put him out, chewing him out for disturbing their writing time.

Aziraphale smiled, “I realized the same shortly after arriving.” He took in Crowley’s appearance once more. Even just from this morning he seemed lighter, a little more grounded. That therapist must be doing their job right. “You look… better.”

Crowley shot him a small smile, “Therapy has that effect sometimes. Rather, when I do what my therapist tells me to, I feel better.”

“And what does your therapist prescribe, exactly?”

Crowley leaned back, hardly sitting in the chair and more so lounging on it, “Nonsense, really. Talking to myself, seeing people, seeing you.”

“Seeing me?”

“Yup,” he popped the p.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, “And why exactly would your therapist recommend time with me?”

Crowley shrugged, “Dunno. You’re just so… you.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, daring Crowley.

He was met with a devilish smirk, “Oh you must know.”  
“Don’t believe I do.”

“Lovely, wonderful, finicky, delightful, mysterious. Completely and utterly indescribable honestly.”

“I’m sorry did you call me finicky?” Aziraphale put on the best insulted face he could.

Crowley laughed, his joy warming Aziraphale’s heart into molten in an instant, “Knew you’d get caught on that one. Just proves ma point.”

“Anthony Crowley you are a wily one.”

“I’ve been called far worse.” The light in his eyes was playful but Aziraphale pondered the reality of that statement. He knew it was likely that Crowley had suffered some verbal assaults from Michael, knowing her well enough to know her words cut like knives.

“That’s a shame. You should receive only the highest of praises.”

Crowley laughed, rolling his eyes at that, “You and I are too old to act like we’re perfect.” He agreed to that. “‘Sides, I’m tough as nails. I can handle anything.”

“Somehow I don’t doubt that. But I think you’re a rather big softie.”

Crowley wore a small look of horror causing Aziraphale to suppress his laughter, “You take that back, angel. An implication that I am nice? That! That right there is the rudest thing I’ve ever heard,” Aziraphale was laughing in earnest now, “I am not soft! I don’t have feelings. Not me! What are those? Never heard of them.”

Aziraphale calmed his laughter down, “Sure, darling. You’ve  _ never _ had an emotion in your life. That’s why you go to a therapist.”

His mouth flopped open and closed like a fish for a moment, “You’ve got me there, you clever little man. This is why she thinks I should see more of you.” He paused, on the precipice of sharing more. Aziraphale suppressed his desire to push him to share. “Mmm. Gonna go more often now, to talk about stuff. Might mention you some more, who knows.”

Aziraphale nearly choked on his tea, “You talked about me?”

“Yup,” Crowley wore that wily look that told Aziraphale he wasn’t going to get a single more word about him on the subject.

“Good heavens,” a brief silence spread between them when Crowley’s phone pinged.

He drew his brows together, “Why are they texting me,” he fished in his pocket for his mobile, “when they know I’m busy.”

Aziraphale tried to wipe the judgement from the lift of his brows, “Someone important?”

Without looking up Crowley responded immediately, “Not more than you are right now. But, yes. One of my authors and my best friend.”

“One of your authors?” He began typing away.

“Mhm,” his brows stayed drawn together. Intense focus looked cute on him. Aziraphale made a mental note.

“Do you care to elaborate?”

Crowley met his gaze finally, “You don’t know?”

“If I knew, why would I ask?”

“Fair point. I’m an editor. For novelists mostly. Gabriel’s partner, B, is one of my authors. And the most difficult one. And my temporary landlord. ”

“You read for a living?”

“You do too, technically.”

Aziraphale gave him a pointed look, “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he waved him off, “I read for a living. Not as fun as it sounds. I have to be really critical of literature that way. Makes it hard to enjoy reading outside of work.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Neither did I. But I wanted a job that involved a lot of reading and telling people what I thought was right. And I’ve been fairly good at it.”

“Fairly? B is one of the most respected author’s in the UK.”

Crowley shrugged it off, “They’re a good author, with a good agent.”

“And an exceptional editor, Crowley.” The intensity in his glare willed Crowley to keep his mouth shut, “I’ve read their novels. Of course, they’re a good writer but where would they be without an editor?”

Crowley fought a blush, “Got the point. I’m good at what I do. Enough of that now.”

“Ah, you don’t like praise?”

“Are you kidding? I love praise. I don’t like being the center of attention.”

Aziraphale hummed, “Hard to believe that with everything else about you.”

“Everything else?’

“Well, you know,” Aziraphale gestured vaguely, “the flash and all”

Crowley smiled, “Flash? You think I’m flash?”

“Have you ever looked in a mirror, Crowley? You look like you’ve come straight off a runway whenever I see you.”

He laughed at that, “Not the first time I’ve heard that. It’s not intentional, aside from the Bentley.”

Aziraphale scoffed, “A Bentley? You own a Bentley?”

“She’s my pride and joy. Vintage, bought her when she was broken down and falling apart. Learned how to fix cars and spent hours fixing her up.”

Aziraphale was shocked, to say the least. He could hardly imagine the clean-cut man in front of him getting his hands dirty doing mechanical work. “You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t we all? You’ve said yourself your sweet, innocent teacher look is hiding surprises underneath.”

He blushed at that, “Yes, well you’ll have to spend a lot more time with me to learn those things.”

“Don’t mind that at all,” Crowley’s gaze was genuine and laced with something close to admiration. It was a look he’d dreamed about receiving from Raphael for years, right from Crowley after only a few weeks.

Unable to fight off the anxiety, Aziraphale heard himself ask before he could even process the question, “What are we doing here, Crowley?”

Brief confusion passed his face, “Talking? Drinking tea?” Aziraphale willed him to understand through his eyes. After a brief moment, realization struck, “Ah, what  _ are _ we doing here, angel?”

“I was rather hoping you’d help me with that.”

They stared at one another, silence stretching between them. It was clear to Aziraphale that something was building here. But the voice in the back of his head couldn’t help but rear its ugly head. Every atom in his body screamed to let him receive whatever it was Crowley was going to provide for him but still that voice whispered,  _ Don’t trust him, he’ll take it all away _ .

Crowley broke the silence, “I don’t think it’s a shock that I’m quite interested in you.” Aziraphale nodded, “And, I don’t want to make assumptions, but you must be a little curious about me at least.”

“More than curious,” he admitted, heat spreading across his cheeks.

“But,” Aziraphale’s heart dropped. He averted his gaze back to the window, anxiety and disappointment swirling around at the same time. Was it possible to feel let down and relieved at the same time?, “if, and only if, you wanted to pursue this, I’d want to make it work.” He looked back to Crowley, shock washing over his features.

A small laugh came from Crowley, “I could sing your praises to the high heavens, Aziraphale, that shouldn’t be surprising. But, as I said, to make it work, I need to get better,” he levelled a look at Aziraphale. “I’m a mess right now, angel. You deserve better than a mess.”

“You seem to be doing much better.”

“Emphasis on the seem. I had a good therapy day which makes it easier to keep the noise at bay. You saw me last night. I still have shit to work through and it’s going to be ugly.” He reached for the hand resting by Aziraphale’s cup, “I don’t want to start something if it’s not on a stable foundation. Can’t have a stable foundation when one half the equation is a god damned disaster.”

“Well, in the spirit of your candor, I think it only fair to do the same.” He cleared his throat, heart hammering in his chest at the thought of exposing the more vulnerable parts of himself, “I would like to pursue something. once we are both on stable ground. I’m not all put together either, Crowley.”

His eyebrows shot up, “Oh really? mister shined up and proper has some issues of his own?” His voice oozed with sarcasm, clearly aware that Aziraphale wasn’t as good as he thought at hiding his problems.

“Off to a rather shaky start there dear. But yes. I don’t believe I’m fully over my ex, to be honest.” He averted his eyes from Crowley’s gaze. “I don’t believe my feelings for you are stemming from a place of loneliness because of his departure. But still, I’d hate to hurt you if that were the case.”

“Remember, Aziraphale,” he squeezed the hand he held, “I’ve just ended a relationship as well. we both need time.”

Aziraphale nodded, moving his gaze to their joined hands.

“This doesn’t mean I’ll stop flirting with you though,” he met Crowley’s playful gaze.

“And I’ll continue to act oblivious to it,” he smiled. “You do realize that this may take me some time, right?” His brows knit together, “Raphael didn’t exactly do any favors for my self-esteem or my trust in men.”

Crowley’s eyes went ablaze, “I don’t care if it’s two weeks or two lifetimes, angel. You’re worth the wait.” The intensity drove Aziraphale’s gaze away once more, “‘Sides, gives us more time to get to know one another. As friends.”

Aziraphale nodded, “Then it’s settled.”

“And we’ll continue to have these...” Crowley paused searching for the right wording, “not-dates, then?”

He let out a small laugh, “Very imaginative, dear boy. Yes, we’ll continue our not-dates.”

“Perfect. We’ve got our arrangement, then.”

Aziraphale couldn’t stop the small smile spreading on his face, “Friends first. Then we’ll see about a relationship.”

Crowley himself was beaming, “Right.”

They stared at one another a moment before something shattered in Crowley, forehead creasing in thought.

“Everything all right, dear?”

Crowley’s leg began bouncing, “Can I ask something? As a friend? About your ex?”

Aziraphale straightened up, discomfort rising in him again as fear swirled around, “What is it exactly?”

“What happened?”

Aziraphale began working at the corners of the napkin next to him, “He simply left one day. Decided he didn’t want to be with me anymore.”

“How long had you been together?”

“About three years.” He paused, debating how much he wanted to share, “I assumed he’d be the man I’d marry.”

Another pause from Crowley, “Were you happy with him?”

That brought Aziraphale’s attention back to Crowley. He waffled a bit, debating whether or not he’d been truly happy, “Well I would say so. At least as happy as I could be. It was stable and it worked for us. We could live our lives independently and blended together well enough.”

“Even when he said those things about you? About you being boring?”

“There are always certain things you don’t like about your partner, I think. He was just more vocal.”

Crowley hummed, “I know how that goes. I dealt with it for six years.”

“For the sake of honesty,” Aziraphale hesitated, “Michael is one of the coldest people I’ve had the displeasure of meeting. The fact that she is my brother’s closest friend, behind his partner, is a tragedy.”

Crowley laughed at that, “She cares,” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in disbelief, “swear she does. She just has a hard time showing it. She wants the best for the people she cares about. She just tends to be a bit of a bitch about it.”

“No wonder her and Gabriel get along so well then,” he smiled, causing Crowley to nearly choke on his coffee.

“Now I don’t mean to speak ill of your brother,” he waited for Aziraphale’s permission to continue, “man’s a total fuckin’ arse.”

“It’s the American in him,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “he didn’t move here until he was seventeen. It was ingrained in him.”

“He was seventeen? Hell, he’s only been here for, what, a decade?”

Aziraphale nodded, “About fifteen years. He’s only a few years younger than I.”

Crowley’s jaw near hit the floor, “You’re older?”

Aziraphale laughed and indulged Crowley in his endless questions about being Gabriel’s older brother. Though, Aziraphale admitted many times, he’d hardly been an older brother and more of a distant figure as he’d already started uni at the time. Crowley began pressing on the circumstances of Gabriel joining the family at seventeen but Aziraphale remained resolute in his silence. “A story for another day,” he insisted.

Even after Crowley had dropped Gabriel as a subject, he kept asking questions of Aziraphale. It was as though he couldn’t get enough information on the man. He asked about his favorite tea (Earl Grey with sugar and cream), his favorite color (blue most days, light green others), his favorite author (Oscar Wilde when he was in a mood, otherwise anything that wasn’t grossly modern), even about his favorite type of student (it was always the brattier children-- the ones who made him put in a little more work for an outcome).

By midnight, Aziraphale realized they’d spent the entire night talking about him. Entirely-boring-and-all-together-rather-dull Aziraphale.

“Good lord, it seems I’ve stolen most of the night.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, “Pardon?”

“We’ve spent all night talking about me.”

“Right,” Crowley nodded, seeing no issue in the turn of events. Aziraphale brought his hands to his lap and smiled politely, exuding an aura of uncomfortableness. “Angel, that’s what I wanted.”

Shock went through Aziraphale, “Why?”

“You’re fascinating, you must know that.” Aziraphale shook his head, “Well you’re fascinating to me. I’ve already said I could listen to you for eons.”

“Oh but what about you,” he gestured over Crowley’s seated form, “you’re loads more interesting than me.”

Crowley laughed, “‘Fraid not. But you can figure that out next time.”

“Next time?”

“Yeah. Friday? Next week? We could grab dinner. ‘Stead of hanging ‘round here.”

“Fridays are normally my days with Tracy. But we could cut our meeting short, I suppose. She would certainly be thrilled to hear it.”

Crowley’s eyes sparkled, “Knows about me, does she?”

“Unfortunately for you, yes.”

“Maybe I’ll meet you there? I’d love to meet her,” he smiled mischievously. “She’s the tarot reading sex worker?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “Yes and I’m sure you two would get along famously. I’ll have to ask her, however.”

“Yeah, fine. Just give me your number and we’ll talk about it later, yeah?”

“Oh, of course,” he took a pen from his coat pocket beside him and began writing his number on a napkin.

“I was just gonna-- right, no, yeah that works just fine then,” he took the napkin, a small smile budging at the corners of his mouth.

Aziraphale yawned, “It’s getting rather late. I hate to end so abruptly--”

“Always next week, angel. I’ll walk you back to your flat.”

They walked in silence once again, arms bumping occasionally as they strolled through the streets. Soho was rather lively this time of night; young and old strewn about the streets chatting, flirting. It warmed Aziraphale’s heart to see people enjoying life so fully. He remembered when he was part of those crowds, young, starry-eyed.

Before he knew it, he’d reminisced himself back to his flat, “Oh, that went rather quick.”

Crowley turned to face him, “Didn’t it?”

They stared at one another, clear boundaries existing now. Friends, then, if they were lucky, if it fit together the way they wanted it to, partners.

But boundaries don’t stop tension. And any passerby within the vicinity could feel the tension between them. Slow building but always ready to snap, forcing them to collide.

Aziraphale broke first, “Next week then, dear.”

“I’ll think of nothing else ‘til then,” he smiled. “Text you when I get home, angel.”

He began strolling away, hips swaying maddeningly, “Don’t forget my umbrella next time!”

Crowley lifted his arm, assuring he’d heard and faded into darkness.

And in the darkness, far from Aziraphale, far from that moment, Crowley bowed his head to reread the digits Aziraphale had written down, clinging the the paper that held them.

“I deserve this,” he whispered over and over, a smile spreading across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is MUCH shorter than intended and for that i am so very sorry. my laptop broke so i wrote most of this on my phone and gotta make due with what i got.
> 
> laptop is fixed so we'll be back on our bullshit next week lovelies!!


	5. delicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! it's been quite a while, i know and i am so sorry for the delay. more on that in the end note! chapter's quote comes from Taylor Swift's "Delicate" (folklore got me back into her so you'll probably see her lyrics pop up at least once more)

“ _ Is it cool that I said all that? Is it too soon to do this yet? 'Cause I know that it's delicate, isn't it? _ ”

Crowley groaned once more at the piles of clothes around him—all variations of the same outfit, naturally. Something black, something grey, maybe, just maybe some hints of reds and greens amongst the haphazardly thrown articles.

B heaved a sigh at the sight. 

Crowley spun to face them, “What are you moaning about?”

They rolled their eyes, “The hell is so important about this man? Thought he was just another bloke.”

“He is not just another bloke.” Crowley’s tone would have terrified anyone who wasn’t B. Unfortunately for him, B could hardly be pressed by anything.

“Forgive me. My asexual partnership doesn’t really cover all the bases you’ve got goin’ on there,” they plopped back onto the bed. “You look like a model in everything you own. Wha’s the point of getting all flustered like this?”

Crowley raked a hand through his hair, “I don’t know B. I wish I could tell you but every time I think about seeing him everything just feels so much dreamier. Like it’s a storybook or something.”

He could feel the impending laughter rolling off of them in waves.

“Don’t you start,” before he could finish B was already laughing. “Right, right we get it, you’re aromantic and asexual let’s run along now.”

B attempted to contain their laughter, sputtering every now and then. Finally, after Crowley had changed his shirt probably four times, they calmed down enough to speak, “Who the hell is this man?” He could feel their eyes boring into his back. “I mean I know you’ve always been a hopeless romantic but even that is a new level for you. Thought you’d have given that up by thirty-five.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, “Yeah I thought that too but here we are.” He gestured vaguely with his hands.

Silence crept around them as he finally settled on a pair of unnecessarily tight jeans. Still debating his shirt options.

“You didn’t answer my question, Crowley.” He hummed, pretending to only half listen with his heart racing. He knew B wouldn’t have a problem with him seeing their partner’s brother, but something about it set him on edge. The idea that B had already formed some opinion of Aziraphale that would shatter Crowley’s fantasy.

“Why do you keep avoiding it?”

Crowley fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, “Me? M’ not avoiding anything!”

“Then tell me who it is.” They stated it as a suggestion but the threat still lingered that it was nearly an order.

“Promise not to pass judgment?”

Their eyes narrowed, “That’s a big ask Crowley.” They paused almost in thought, their face suddenly turning to disgust, “It’s not one of the new editors is it? Hell who are those two?”

“Hastur and Ligur and I’m offended you would even think I would stoop so low.” He gave himself a once over in the mirror. It would have to do. “No he’s far better than those fools.”

The silence fell between them once more, he slipped his boots on. Squared himself off, facing B directly, “It’s Aziraphale.”

The permanent crease in B’s forehead deepened, “You mean Gabriel’s brother?”

Crowley nodded.

“Aziraphale Fell?”

“Yes.”

For the first time in all the years he’d known them, he saw a light dance in B’s eyes, “What’s a man like that doing with a fiend like you?”

“So you like him then?” Crowley hated himself for it, but B’s opinion mattered to him. particularly considering they knew Aziraphale.

“Like him?” Their eyebrow raised, “He’s the only reason I stick around. The poor man is the only light in that family.”

Crowley laughed at that, “What about your darling husband?”

“Listen, I never said I liked the man. He’s good for money, I’m good for his image. Everybody’s happy.”

“Oh c’mon now, you know you like Gabriel.”

“I care about his well being, liking is something different,” they checked their watch. “You’re going to be late.”

Crowley checked his watch, “Shit!”

* * *

Careening around a bend, he’d wondered why he’d bothered to take the tube at all. He’d have been late in the Bentley but hell there wouldn’t be so many bloody people staring at him. He shifted, voices praising the stares colliding with the uncomfortable feeling that came with all those eyes. He stared at the floor ignoring the call of the station, knowing full well he had a couple of stops to go. The crowds shifted around him as people stepped off and on, he focused on his shoes willing his thoughts to calm down.

Then, like a blanket wrapped around his shoulder, a comforting voice lifted him out of his reverie. “Crowley?” There was an unexpected smile on Aziraphale’s lips, “Well I certainly didn’t think we’d be running into each other here.”

In an instant, he put on his charm, “What? Think I’m too good for public transport?”

“Well,” he gave him a rather prim, yet playful, glance, “you do have that rather flash car.”

Crowley laughed to himself. Couldn’t argue there. “Yes well she’s pretty but she’ll make me late. Couldn’t have that tonight, angel.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, “Concerned about timeliness now, are we?” A smug look settled into his features.

“Only because I have the honor of meeting Madame Tracy herself. No other particular reason,” he willed his face to shrug along with his shoulders, prompting an eye roll and reluctant smile from Aziraphale.

“To be frank,” Aziraphale began fidgeting with the buttons of his coat, “I’m quite nervous.”

“Nervous?” Aziraphale hummed in response, still looking at the button of his coat. “Why’s that?”

“Well Tracy is just such a strong personality and as much as I know she’ll love you,” he broke his gaze to meet Crowley’s, “she always loves the ones with personality, I just worry it will be a whole lot in one room. And I-“ he fumbled with his words as he directed his gaze out the window, “I- I just want you two to get on well. That’s all really”

Crowley kept his quiet, pleased smile to himself best he could, “Well now, angel, she can’t be any worse than the ones I choose to be around.” He waited for Aziraphale to shoot him that reproving look, “Besides, I’ll like her, I know I will.”

Skepticism drew his brows together, “And how do you know that?”

“Because you like her. That’s all I need.”

Crowley watched the shades of pink overtake Aziraphale’s cheeks, a quiet, amused huff escaping his nose. That joy rose up in Crowley once more as a smile fought its way across his features. A voice outside of himself echoed in his brain.

“This is why you took the tube.”

Pretending to check the time, he grabbed his phone, snapping the quickest picture of his shoes next to Aziraphale’s.

When he looked back up to Aziraphale, the worried look he wore before seemed to fade a bit. His brow still creasing.

“You know it’s only tea?”

“Of course I know,” Crowley tried to be reassuring.

Something seemed to linger in Aziraphale, something not wholly of his own, “Not very lively. Other than the company.”

“I don’t need lively, Aziraphale.” He laid his hand on the man’s shoulder to grab his attention, “I just need you.”

Those blue eyes seemed to clear in that instant, a light shining in them for the briefest moment. It would be a light Crowley would chase to the grave if he had to. It vanished suddenly, but the worried look did not return.

“Right.”

The call for their station brought them back to the space they were in. The realization that they hadn’t even made it to Tracy’s yet hitting both of them.

* * *

The tense energy was rolling off of Aziraphale in waves as the pair stood outside the door to Tracy’s building. Crowley resolved to stay silent while Aziraphale held his hand just hovering above the keypad to get in.

A minute or two passed by, but the fall chill began to sink into Crowley’s bones. “Angel, don’t mean to rush—“

“Oh so sorry,” he punched the code in and pushed the door open. Crowley heaved a sigh of relief, warm air greeting them. “We’re you cold? You should have said something.”

Crowley made a vague motion with his hand to brush off Aziraphale’s concern, “Wasn’t a big deal.”

“I’d like it if you would tell me wh—“

He was interrupted by the slamming of a door and the consequent trill voice that accompanied it, “Well come in then! Been waitin’ all day for you two, c’mon!”

Crowley turned to catch a glimpse of the woman and felt himself grin.

She was wrapped in some kind of purple patterned shawl, bright red hair curled like no other, and a smear of red lips to match. Various different gold decorated her fingers, neck, wrists, ears. Very eclectic.

“Now you haven’t been waiting too long have you,” Crowley strode past Aziraphale, “I would hate to keep such a fine lady waiting.”

A mischievous smile made a home on her face, “Cheeky one aren’t you?”

“Deadly serious at all times, actually.”

“I can tell,” she squeezed his arm, pulling him down to kiss both cheeks, “You must be Crowley.”

“And the one and only Madame Tracy.”

“One and only is right,” Tracy motioned for Aziraphale, stock still staring at the pair, to join them as she walked into her flat.

Crowley shot what he hoped would appear as an excited smile to him and followed Tracy’s suit. Inside there was a small sitting area directly across from a massive table. Tracy lounged in one of the chairs of the sitting area, motioning for Crowley to take a seat on the settee.

He lounged across it naturally, as if he’d been here hundreds of times. The action bringing a gleam to Tracy’s eye to match a warm smile.

“Now, Aziraphale has told me so much about you.”

“Only the worst, I’m sure,” he smiled.

“Oh yes. How terribly good looking you are, devilishly charming. The worst of the worst.”

Aziraphale sputtered as he took his seat next to Tracy, “I didn’t say all that.”

“No use lying, angel,” he shot a wink at Tracy, who shimmied with delight, “cat’s out of the bag. I’m awfully handsome and charming to boot.”

“Well- Now- I-“ he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Tracy scrunched her nose with delight at Crowley. “I can’t say they’re lies.”

“Course they’re not lies, dearie.” Tracy gestured to Crowley lounged out on the settee, “Look at the man. I’d give him a free trial of my services!”

Crowley roared with laughter at that, “Like I’d ever accept them for free.”

Aziraphale let out an exasperated laugh, “How you two have got on this fast is beyond me.”

“There’s an old saying about that isn’t there?” Tracy cocked her head, “Something about birds?”

“Birds of a feather,” Crowley started, “flock together,” Tracy finished in unison with him. 

Aziraphale hummed, “Well then, how do I fit in here?”

“Oh come now, dearie,” Tracy drew her brows together, “you may be able to fool this one, but I know you’re just as lively as us.”

“He’s been fooling me?” Crowley faked a gasp.

“Proper lying to your face,” Tracy pursed her lips, feigning disappointment. “Keep trying to tell him he oughta show that side but I’m just an old crone. No one listens to me.”

Crowley shook his head, “I would always listen to you, Tracy.”

“The cheeky ones certainly do,” she raised one thin brow, shooting the most knowing gaze at him. He nearly choked, stifled by the stare and wanting to laugh all the same.

“Can’t say I’ve ever met a woman quite like you.”

“Most can’t,” Aziraphale finally piped up, awoken from his awe at Crowley’s plight.

Tracy smiled, “Nice of you to finally join the conversation. I was just telling this lovely chap over here,” she gestured to Crowley, “about how cheeky boys always find a way to listen.”

Aziraphale shot her a much softer glare than he’d ever given Crowley, “Would you be gentle with him?”

“Should only come prepared to give what you can take,” she shrugged her shoulders, smiling and playful.

“Now hang on,” Crowley propped himself up from his lounging, “who’s saying I can’t take a little cheek?”

“You have some life in you yet!” Tracy smiles at him.

“Never mind her,” Aziraphale shook his head, a small smile spreading across his face, “she’s all talk.”

“All talk?” she sounded nearly offended. “I have never in my life— All talk— Absurd! You want to hear about all talk, what about you mister,” she raised her brows at Aziraphale.

“And what about me?”

Tracy pointed to Crowley, “You want me to bring it up with Mister Perfect around?”

Aziraphale let out a small gasp, “You wouldn’t dare!”

Crowley became enthralled watching the pair bicker. He’d never seen Aziraphale light up and grow so comfortable so quickly. It was like watching a log slowly catch fire—he could feel the warmth growing in his chest as Aziraphale became a little more animated. Still precise, still sensible, yet fiery and bold. Crowley watched in awe, completely tuned out of the conversation, as Aziraphale’s face and body language spoke a language all its own. 

“Wouldn’t you agree, Crowley?” Tracy’s voice pulled him from his stupor. He hummed, raising his eyebrows. “That Aziraphale could talk a brick wall to death?”

“Certainly could in the right setting, yeah,” he cleared his throat, drawing his gaze away from Aziraphale to Tracy.

Aziraphale crossed his legs, that prim look settling into his features, “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tracy snorted with laughter. “Get you onto a subject you have any strong feelings about and God help us!”

“Got him talking about poetry once and couldn’t shit him up!” Crowley shared a conspiratorial look with Tracy as her smile turned something almost wicked.

“Wouldn’t shut up about that arse of yours either,” she got up, stunning the pair into silence. “I’ll go make us some tea now!”

Crowley looked over to Aziraphale going directly from pink to red. The pair locked eyes and burst into laughter.

“Well isn’t she just a delight,” Crowley couldn’t wipe the smile from his face.

Aziraphale shook his head, “She is truly like no other.”

“Is it true then? What she said?”

“Well-“ the blush returned nearly to full force, “Erm- I can-“

“Because really you’re one to talk. You practically have an arse that was heaven-sent.”

Crowley expected that to send Aziraphale back to his flushed embarrassment, but something in his eyes twinkled. Crowley had a feeling he was in for a treat.

“You want to talk about heaven-sent?” Crowley sprawled even more, inviting Aziraphale to speak.

“Oh I’ll tell you heaven-sent,” Aziraphale leaned forward from his chair. “Let’s start with that laugh that lights up the whole room.”

Crowley could feel a pink tinge on his cheeks, he forced himself to be more nonchalant, turning his face away.

“And those eyes, dear heavens! They’re not only stunning but so expressive.

“You’re whole face, honestly.” He paused a moment, taking in Crowley’s profile, “Carved by the gods themselves, no doubt. And worthy of telling a tale all it’s own.”

Crowley tilted his head to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. What started as a playful spark seemed to grow into a hungry fire. Crowley couldn’t seem to rip his eyes away.

“Don’t get me started on those legs! I could spend all day exploring those limbs.”

“And will we-“ Crowley choked on the words. “Will we get to explore? One day?”

“Maybe one day,” he leaned back into his chair, the hunger turning to embers almost by command, “or maybe you’ll never know.”

“Now that’s cruel, angel.”

“You spend most of our time together teasing me. It’s only fair that two can play that game, dear boy,” that smug satisfaction would have irritated Crowley on anyone else. But on Aziraphale, he couldn’t get enough.

* * *

Crowley insisted on walking Aziraphale back to his flat despite Aziraphale’s insistence that he’d be fine. Crowley had written him off and insisted nonetheless.

“See, bet you’re glad I walked you home now! Look at all these seedy people.”

There was no one of the sort, just the typical Soho crowd.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “Ah yes, the local gay youth are so terrifying.”

Crowley turned to face him, walking backward into the alleyway that lead to Aziraphale’s door, “They’ll get you, those youths.”

Aziraphale let out a small, bright little laugh and was suddenly pushed forward by a man elbowing to get by on the pavement behind him. He nearly fell into Crowley, stabilizing himself with a fraction of space between the two of them.

Their eyes met and the air between them filled with electricity neither man wanted to acknowledge—the sly remarks of the night catching up to them. As it once had in the park, the world stood still around them once more.

Crowley could feel every hair in his body stand on end as those blue eyes flicked down towards his lips and returned to his gaze once more. He could feel himself drifting away, being swept into the current of his emotion and frantically sought to ground himself as he slowly leaned forward.

His brain screamed that he was going too fast. This was not taking his time. He watched Aziraphale’s head tilt and saw him lean almost imperceptibly before freezing. Eyes suddenly opening wide. That’s all it took for Crowley to ground himself back into reality.

He leaned against the wall of the building next to him, setting Aziraphale back to where he was before falling into him. The world resumed its normal pace. 

“Lovely night tonight. That Tracy is some of the best company I’ve had in years.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks were slowly turning pink as he aimed to look at anything that wasn’t Crowley, “Yes, she’s truly something else. As is Newton, who I believe I’ve mentioned before.”

“Don’t know that you have.” He tried not to take the averted gaze personally.

“Younger fellow. Met him at the library?”

Crowley remembered. That first night, when everything clicked. The one that changed everything. Yes. Of course, Crowley remembered, “Ah yes that I do recall! Uni student?”

“Graduate. Sometimes needs my help with papers. That’s how I met him in the first place,” Aziraphale still refused to look Crowley in the eye.

“Smart to go to you.” That brought Aziraphale’s gaze to his once more. Crowley felt an eyebrow shoot up—it wasn’t like Crowley had never complimented the man before. He couldn’t figure out why Aziraphale was looking at him like he’s just handed him the world on a platter.

“Why?” His voice was low and quiet, huskier than normal.

“Why what? Why he’s smart to go to you?”

He nodded, now refusing to look away. “It’s obvious, innit? You’re brilliant.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught, “You think so?”

“Course,” Crowley’s brows drew together, showing his confusion.

Recognizing this, Aziraphale smiled, “I don’t hear it often,” an altogether far too prim and smug look settled across his features. “Not that I need to, I know I’m intelligent,” his cheeks turned pink, “but it is nice to hear.”

A broad smile broke across Crowley’s face, “Bastard.”

“Just enough of one,” he smiled, looking back at his door. “Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?”

“Think I’m full of tea for the night,” Aziraphale’s face fell, “but coffee might do.”

And there was that smile, coquettishly grateful, “I might have some for you.”

“Lead the way,” he gestured to the door.

Crowley couldn’t stop his heart from pounding. It wasn’t the first time he’d been invited into someone’s flat—but it was Aziraphale.

Before he knew it, he was standing at the door to Aziraphale’s flat, Aziraphale talking on and on about something—the shoddy locks on the door, if he’d had half the mind to process what was happening around him.

The lock clicked open and Aziraphale heaved a sigh of relief, welcoming Crowley in.

It was just as small as he has imagined. What he had not expected, however, were the piles and piles of books and papers strewn about here and there. A knick-knack on nearly every surface. For a man so particular and precise, it was a shock to see such a scene.

“Don’t mind the mess, it’ll never get cleaned,” he strode to the kitchen, searching a cabinet for coffee ground, mumbling something to himself.

Crowley felt the immense joy swell up in him as he watched the man, assuring himself this was a sense of joy he was worth having. He grabbed his phone, snapping the quickest picture of the cluttered space around them, Aziraphale’s back turned to him, intent on providing him coffee, and smiled softly.

It was a smile he hadn’t used in ages, one reserved for the most tender of moments. And he couldn’t help but think back to that as they chatted the night away, laughing and sharing stories of their youths—stories that made them realize they both got up to no good in their own ways.

And when the night crept past midnight, Crowley left the flat, parting with nothing except Aziraphale’s simple request that they do this more often.

“My place, next time,” Crowley smiled, slow and warm, “so I don’t have to remember that bloody umbrella.”

Aziraphale laughed, low and warm, eyes twinkling, “Yours, then.”

If this is what it meant to take things slow, maybe he could take it slow after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter and i struggled. i rewrote it four times, had a nearly completed draft go missing, and had to write it in the small time before i was going to bed. grad school and work have been railing me. luckily, i have three scrapped ideas for this chapter that gave me some good content for the next chapter(s?).
> 
> your comments always make me so so happy. i hope you're all being safe, those of you still in places where corona is controlling your life (hi America).


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